Jago & Litefoot 2 - The Iytean Menace
by alexjolie
Summary: This adventure was inspired in by the FASA Doctor Who Role Playing Game module of the same name authored by J. Andrew Keith 1985. Some of characters derive from that work, the Doctor and a pair of cameo characters are the property of the BBC. Any resemblance to persons else living, , dead or otherwise is purely coincidental and worrying
1. Chapter 1

The Iytean Menace

_The Time Vortex_

The Doctor sat in his favourite armchair. He had moved it into the console room… when was it now? His memory was getting worse, his memories increasingly elusive and he knew he was forgetting more and more. At least whilst he was doing the bidding of the Celestial Intervention Agency, the Triumvirate's ruling was partly suspended. His increasing amnesia, though, was probably symptomatic that his tenure with the CIA was coming to an end and the Triumvirate ruling was being implemented. At least, for now, he still had some semblance of normality.

The CIA had effectively ambushed and enlisted the Doctor before his enforced regeneration had been fully implemented. He had carried on in his Second incarnation, fighting the evils of space and time, much as he had before, yet this time the CIA was somehow blanking him from the attentions of the Time Lord Triumvirate. He was older and more tired than he should ever have been, living beyond that time sanctioned by the council. The CIA had acted before his appearance had changed and his memories of the TARDIS functions completely erased. However, as his female handler had admitted, they had not acted in time to halt the process before it started and some memories were now hidden beyond their abilities to retrieve and it was only a matter of time before the regeneration occurred and his physical and mental aspects changed.

It was one of those CIA missions he had just completed; sent in to halt the Dominators turning to time travel, the Doctor had seen no course left to him but to seal the entire race inside a time loop. If he had not have done so, the resultant war would destroy a full fifth of the universe. He had hoped for some respite, even though his young friend and assistant Bernice had sacrificed herself to save him and he owed it to her memory to continue. He was so tired. Even as he felt the life ebb from her broken body as he cradled her, the light dimming from her eyes, there was the pull of his CIA controllers beckoning him away. Bernice had died in his arms and he wept over her still warm body, wishing he could swap places with her.

That had been four days now by his personal timestream. The TARDIS was following a signal trace through the Vortex; no doubt the CIA would reveal their intentions to him in their own time.

The Doctor sighed, and leant back in his chair, the swooping and crashing strains of Number 9 _Nimrod _from the Enigma Variations washing over him. The aroma of the peppermint tea wafted into his nostrils and he opened his eyes. Still sparkling with an innocent intensity not quite extinguished by his CIA missions, they looked straight at the mug, "I wonder if Susan would-" then he remembered. He had left Susan on Earth, sometime in that planet's mid-twenty-second century in another incarnation. He really must visit his granddaughter before he forgot her entirely, before she forgot him. He picked up the cup and settled back, his eyes closed as he thought of visiting the Seventh Galaxy of Light and Ingenuity and started to drift to sleep.

There was a deep rumbling tolling, the Doctor's eyes snapped open. He blinked and looked down where he had dropped his tea. That stain would never come out of the chair but there was something more. There was another deep rumble rolling through the TARDIS, as if from under the floor on which the chair was sat. That was reasonably possible; the TARDIS interior, whilst not exactly infinite, was both vast and labyrinthine, with possibly hundreds of different rooms above and below the console room, let alone those to every side. A long corridor wound away from the control room and with increasing frequency in recent days and at the most inopportune moments, the Doctor would dash through the door during some emergency, only to find that his – he still laughed at the thought of the TARDIS as _his_ these days, she had always been her own girl and now with the CIA controlling events it was even worse – the ship had reconfigured herself and he was lost. Of course, it might have been him who had reconfigured it – the more time he spent on these CIA missions, the more frequently he forgot what he had done a few moments, days or even years ago.

The Doctor thought about turning up the lights – after all, the Eye of Harmony if properly contained was an almost infinite power source so it seemed idiotic to conserve power. After a moment, he decided against it. With only him aboard, it seemed foolish to have more than the barest essential lights on. He stood to cross over to the console and its brighter pool of light. He twisted a control on the standard lamp beside his seat and the light flared brighter illuminating the nearby silver-grey walls and white roundels. The Doctor shook his head, trying to clear the fug of melancholy about his failing memory. Then the source of the rumbling tolling became apparent; the Cloister Bell.

He virtually jumped over to the console and flicked a switch as the time rotor began to groan with strain. Nothing should have affected the TARDIS like that. The ship was, after all, virtually indestructible. Troubling word that – 'virtually'. The scanner flared to life. The local star, five-billion years ago had been what the locals termed a 'G2' type; small and yellow, quite unremarkable. Now it was a vast, swollen fireball, pulsing and retching out its last few million years of life. Distended and no longer spherical, it glowed with a malevolent pink fire beneath a cooling crust of black shreds and tatters that looked like rot infecting its granular skin. Firestorms swirled and blistered across its enlarged surface and vomited gouts of stellar matter out into the system. An immense column of excreting gas and matter plumed away from the behemoth star, about eighteen light-months long. It looked like a huge, immense quill stabbed into the soft ball of the sun.

The TARDIS scanner showed external radiation levels almost immeasurable even by the Time Lord's advanced technology. The entire system was thick with drifting radiation banks, ash clouds and the flame and splinters of matter they projected. Magnetic anomalies, gravity pools and radioactive undertows seemed to ebb and flow with the pulsing of the star.

There were eight planets left in the system as the star had expanded outwards, as well as millions of planetoid fragments, mostly ragged embers of wasted rock and venting energy. The third largest rock, second from the star and virtually tidally-locked with its rotation slowed to almost nil, was a scabby, ruined, semi-shattered ball with lingering swaths of swirling bluish atmosphere. Craters covered its northern hemisphere; some impacts had been so large that they had torn open the mantle and exposed the livid red core beneath, like a skull cracked with devastating wounds. Scatters of light dotted and blossomed across the surface as meteors from the debris ring that had once been a moon struck and incinerated former continents far below.

The Doctor adjusted the controls of his ship and the TARDIS approached the planet – the seeming source of the signal. The rotor to the heart of the TARDIS groaned louder, the scanner detected the convulsion of the very fabric of space, striated clouds of dust, vast sheets of stellar fire hurling silver lumps of rock and ice. Blooms of fire consumed crater-pocked landmasses in the darkness of the world below as immense, brutal storms raged in oceanic measure. Only ribbons of atmosphere remained, thin and inert, a vague ammoniac vapour, pervasive luminescence cloud banks swathing the once verdant world.

He looked to the console, blinking and shaking his head as though trying desperately to deny what it showed.

Nexus Point Sol III

Humanian Era

034140989

He swallowed hard, "Earth… must be the," he struggled to remember, "The Fifty-Sixth segment… but that would be… 30028442356." He snatched a slide rule from the console, "So, this is…?" he asked himself distractedly, as he fiddled with the calculating device, "1900 AD. Oh my, something is very wrong here. But what…" He changed the scanner mode to display the time tracks, "Oh My!" The Doctor studied the display, from the left of the screen the time tracks were coherent and regimented traces of pale blue overlaid on a deep red screen. However about a third of the way across the screen, the linearity soon collapsed and the traces became increasingly divergent and twisted, turning into a mess of tangled lines like so much spaghetti. Various codes and indicators flashed on the display showing the destruction of all the timelines trailing from a single point. The Doctor manipulated the scanner controls and the display zoomed in, tracing the untwisting distortion back along the separated and unravelled lines to where they formed a coherent braid, "Less than a relative decade ago… maybe only nine." He pauses, "It'll be good to see Victoria and Albert again" Something troubled the Time Lord, "Or was he dead by that point?" The Doctor trailed off lost in his own thoughts.

1. The Body-Snatcher

_London, 1889_

London was riddled with underground caverns, streams and tributaries, many of which flow deep underground and the new sewerage system – still being built in several places – was cavernous, almost a city in itself. As well as the well-maintained tunnels that carried the trains, there was also a veritable warren – a secondary network of access corridors, maintenance channels and passageways leading to storage facilities where tools and equipment were kept. Additional to this, were the tunnels that led nowhere – that were blocked off, either entirely or partly, which had caved in – even at this infant-like stage of the London Underground. Some of the tunnels, the walls caked with soot, the ground inches deep in sludge, led to abandoned stations – the "ghost stations" of which there were reputed to be forty of across the system – stations that were deemed unfit or surplus to purpose. This did not include the undisclosed stations that – if the theories were right – linked to the Palace of Westminster or Buckingham Palace. It was surprising that barely three decades after the first lines were laid down between Paddington and Farringdon; some areas of the network were already showing such signs of abandonment.

_Somewhere below Oxford Street_

The curved soot-blackened walls of this abandoned spur had darker areas that might be alcoves or side passages. Water trickled through weaknesses in the brickwork, forging channels and white veins of deposit that glinted in the flickering gaslight of a pair of lanterns from within one of the alcoves. Drips of water fell onto the rusting and corroding rails with rotten sleepers and damping the ground beneath.

"Don't know when the dig's been this 'ard." Jenkins complained. He was an agile, quick, almost bird-like little man in a coarse workman clothing, somewhere in his mid-twenties. Setting down his shovel, he removed his grubby bowler hat, produced a large red handkerchief and mopped his brow, "Yer sure about yer ruddy map?"

His partner scowled in to the flickering light of the lantern "Shut up and dig you bloody fool!" He answered with a voice menacing and even. "Another fifty feet and we'll be right under the bank." In an undertone he added "Damned Cockney fool!"

"I 'erd that," Jenkins said cheerfully. "Don't go swearing at me, Jack Bannister. Or do yer want to dig yer own bleedin' 'ole?" He took up the shovel again and started once more, whistling as he dug and making his taller, darker partner angrier then ever.

Bannister's bearded face grimaced as his hands clenched tighter around the shaft of his pick as he pulled back and attacked the unyielding surface of the tunnel ahead with renewed, savage determination. After a few minutes silence Bannister put his pick to one side with a grunt, "This one's about full. You keep digging, while I drag it back to the main line."

"Roight-o guv'ner," Fitting his actions to his words, Bannister began manhandling the earth-filled basket back down the narrow, irregular dug tunnel into the main branch line. Jenkins kept shovelling spades full of dirt out of the impromptu access.

Suddenly his shovel struck a solid barrier, with a jarring clang, "Bleeding rocks!" He swore under his breath and he tried another spot higher up, with the same result, and then a third. Finally he straightened up to his full, yet diminutive height, leaned on his shovel rubbing his back and muttering to himself, now less cheerfully, "Bit of a big one that!"

"Damn you Jenkins, if you keep stopping we'll never get through!" Bannister said angrily, coming back to the work face.

"T'aint my fault yer precious route runs up against some big rock." The smaller man protested.

"Well, dig around it then." Bannister ordered.

"I already tried that, didn't I?" Jenkins voice was taking on a whining note.

"Garn on with yer," Bannister growled, "you make me sick." He pushed Jenkins out of the way and grabbed the pick, struck several blows. He, too, stopped, staring down dumbfounded at the blunted end of the pick. He then started again, this time chipping the mud and stone slowly and carefully until the barrier was exposed in the flickering lantern-light. Then he took a critical look "This ain't rock." He placed a hand on the new, shiny surface, "Look metal, metal like one of those ironclad battle ships in the docks."

Jenkins pitched in to help enlarge the hole, "Look 'ere Jack! There's an 'ole down 'ere" He pointed to the twisted metal that bent inwards near the bottom of their tunnel.

Bannister considered for a moment "Let's dig it out. I don't know what it is, but I want to find out!"

"Ain't reason for one o' yer ironclads to be underneath Oxford Street?" Jenkins protested and questioned.

Bannister just glared at him, "Dig out that hole!" While Jenkins hesitated, Bannister continued, "Look, all this metal must be made to keep something out. Maybe it's a hidden vault of some kind."

The Cockney's easy grin returned, "Well why didn't cha say so first time? I bet yer roight… There's probably gold 'n' silver 'n' shinies buried down there."

The two of them went back to work, more eager than before. "Ain't a vault; that's a fact," Jenkins said an hour later as the two of them held their lanterns high and looked around them. The hole was now revealed as a huge rent in the large metal wall was behind them now. While before them was a vast darkened chamber filled with strange shapes. Even the odour from the train lines that wafted down their tunnels smelled less foul and stuffy in this room. Neither Jenkins nor Bannister liked the empty watchfulness that seemed to envelop this room.

Bannister, trying to show he was not as frightened as Jenkins by this strange place, was moving, slowly further in to the room, until he came to a wide curved console standing at almost chest height. Glass-covered gauges and dials reflected the light of the lantern as he examined it. When he rested his hands on it he could feel a very slight but constant vibration. Come to think of it, the metal floor that had echoed loudly beneath them had a certain vibration, throbbing with hidden energy. As he looked down at the console his eyes came to rest on a small object that seamed to be held in place by an odd metal clamp. He spoke softly but nevertheless his voice echoed loudly round the chamber, "Hey Bert, come and look at this."

Jenkins joined him, his eyes darting everywhere. "What is it?"

Bannister fumbled with the clasps for a moment then removed the slender glass-like rod from the panel. "Don't know… But it ain't come from around here; don't look like nothing I ever seen before." He turned it over in his hands thoughtfully.

"What kind of place is this?" Jenkins demanded.

Bannister did not answer right away: His eyes focused on something far off, beyond the darkness, he spoke softly. "I wonder, I wonder… Bert you remember that French fellow I told you about – Galopin?"

"That one with the balloons an' that boat that went underwater and things weren't he? What about 'im?"

"He wrote about ships that could travel to the moon and back too!" There was silence. "Don't you see Bert? This is a place really is some kind of ironclad, but not a boat, it's another kind of ship – an æther ship – for travelling to other planets!"

Jenkins face showed scorn and disbelief. "But that's fiction ain't it? What's one of them 'æther-ships' doing under the _Capital and Counties Bank_? Talk sense, Jack!"

Bannister shook his head slowly, "Look around you Bert, this wasn't built on Earth! I'll bet it was buried here for a long, long time, as long as London's been here maybe. But it didn't come from Earth."

"You mean it's from the Moon, Jack?"

"Maybe so," Bannister said contemplating just what this could mean, "Maybe so."

"What do we do about it then?"

Bannister smiled, his eyes alight with the Dreams of Avarice. "If there's more of this stuff around…" He held up the thin rod in his hand, "Then we'll get rich from it, that's what we'll do. We'll sell junk from this place to any one who will pay. We're the only ones who will know about this thing, and we'll make a fortune selling gadgets and stuff."

Jenkins grinned, "What a notion! What an idea! There's all sorts a' rich folks just luv to collect useless stuff; yer roight Jack!"

"All right then, let's look around for some more, see what else we can find. See what we can take out tonight and sell off."

Jenkins started to turn away, and then swung back suddenly. "Yer don't think any of these moon men people to stop us, do yer Jack?"

"Come on Bert. I told you this thing must have been here for years. Since before this city was built. They'll be long dead by now. Don't worry about it."

It knew time had gone by. Even a stasis pod only slowed down the flow of time; it did not halt it completely. But something was wrong; an ordinary trip back to Homeworld would not take as long as this. It should not have noticed the passage of time at all on so short a trip; outside the pod, centuries must have past. For it, many cycles had past since its last host had been killed, and the Monitors had taken it… many cycles without food, without senses almost without life. It was hungry, but knew that only a miracle would free it now. That flicker in the smooth flow of awareness so many cycles past must have been a crash or an explosion. The ship's crew was probably long gone, but the ship's power cells would maintain the stasis pod until the end of time and it would perish of multiply depravations long before that.

Bert Jenkins set his lantern down on another console and squinted in to the gloom. It was the fourth room that he had explored and the strangeness of the eerily dark, circular, metallic world weighed heavily on him. He wished Bannister was with him, but Bannister had insisted that they explore their discovery separately. His patronising tone still echoed in his memories.

"We'll find more to cart off by morning if we look separately, Bert."

Maybe Jack Bannister was unafraid of the ship from the moon, but Jenkins was not. All these strange shapes, and metal walls, doors too large and shelves too high off the ground – what manner of man had built it? Jenkins hated the place and wanted to be done with it. But Bannister had said they would be rich. Jenkins had been working for Bannister for a long time now, making money and Bannister's schemes had nearly always paid off.

Reluctantly, Jenkins took his lantern again resolving to trust his friend as he had so many times before, and kept searching for small removable pieces to sell. He was however too nervous to notice the button of the lantern had banged against a large button set in to the console… until it was too late.

Behind the console was a great spherical shell of dull grey metal, taller than a man and perfectly round. As Jenkins turned around, there was a noise that made him spin back and gasp. The sphere moved, the walls of it rolled back and slid down until only the bottom half remained.

Jenkins stayed rooted to the spot in object terror, breath coming in short gasps, until gradually realising that nothing more was going to happen. Nothing had jumped out of the opening to attack him; nothing else moved or happened around him. All he saw was where the sphere had been was a shape like a shallow bowl within, the remaining half of the globe, a bowel that seemed to contain a small pool of liquid at the very centre.

"What's this then?" Bert said softly, his fear momentarily overcome by his innate curiosity and an odd compulsion drawing him closer. He took a few slow, cautious steps towards the bowl, raising his lantern higher to try and see what was inside. It seemed that the liquid within – more like thick oil than water – was rippling somehow. But he was unsure whether that was real or just the flickering of the lantern light. He set the lantern down on the edge of the bowl and leaned forward to see better, placing a hand on the inner surface of the shallow depression.

Quicker than the eye could follow the oily liquid moved, before Jenkins could react, it flowed up the side of the bowl and engulfed his hand. Jenkins found that he could not move even though he desperately wanted to scream and run. All he could do was watch as the strange liquid pooled around his hand, then thickened in to a jelly-like slime but at the same time dwindled before his terrified eyes.

Freedom! The pod was opening up and when the walls had slid apart, the cycles of slow time had ended at last. It was free again. It sensed a Life nearby. Now it might feed once more. And see. And act. It had not been able to do for so long.

Though it could not see or hear, or feel by any method known to human senses, helpless as it was without a host, it could sense the presence and movement of the Life that was near it. It knew that this Life was intelligent, but not giving the usual double aura of Life that told of one of its own was riding an unintelligent host. If centuries had really passed outside the pod then the Monitors that had caught it were long dead and this Life was some other species that had found the ship. Perfect! It would claim this life for its own. Unlike others of its species, this one had no compunction about riding an intelligent host. Quite the contrary, for an intelligent host's mental powers, in combination with its own, would make it a lord among its own kind. If the Monitors had not interfered, it would have done so centuries ago; now it had a second chance. It would do as it liked, enjoy and savour the pleasures of the host's senses, it would be glorious. It no longer felt bound by the laws of its peers or the monitors. Now nothing could stand in its way.

The Life was close now, and the creature sensed the time was right. Using its unerring attraction to Life, it sent out a tendril up the side of the pod until it encountered an appendage. Immediately it jammed the Life's neural net, and gathered itself at leisure, slowly working its way into the pores in the alien's dermal layer. It entered its new host. As it distributed its three pounds of protoplasm thought the host body it probed the being's mind; primitive, ignorant and stupid compared to its last host – but that was to be expected. But with a wealth of sensations and impressions! Eyes and ears, nerves with which to touch and taste, a blood supply for food… it was free.

All that remained was to see if this host was subject to its control, to The Change. It probed, tightened its grip on the mind and body…

…And Bert Jenkins screamed in anguish.

He was still screaming when Bannister found him five minutes later.

2. Angels and Dæmons

_Bishopgate, two years later_

It was a bright autumn morning, the busy streets of London carried on as normal. The city had grown naturally through the centuries along animal paths and so the streets had an almost organic feel to them, twisting and turning, ending in courtyards and dead ends. In one of these small off-branching roads atop the rise of a small hill, a distant chiming started. This was rapidly joined by a wheezing, groaning sound; the sound of immense and ancient machinery rending the fabric of the universe. The symphony grew and faded in volume, washing like waves as a light began to flash eight feet above the ground. Soon a blue box-shaped object outlined itself below the flashes and faded into a solid unit. With a loud bang the bulk outline of a dark blue police telephone box settled as if at rest.

After a few moments a figure emerged, a distinctly ruffled and comical figure owing to his shapeless clothing. He was dressed in an ill-matched and baggy black frock-coat and black and pale pink broad-checked trousers with scuffed ankle-boots. This strange appearance was furthered by a small straggly navy bow-tie with white polka-dots held to a pale blue short-sleeved shirt by what appeared to be a safety-pin. He fastened the door of the police box and patted the side, before turning to face the street. Blue eyes, still with a mischievous but dulled by fatigue and sadness, twinkled from a tired and lined face, framed by a mop of tousled black hair frosted with grey and white.

He scratched the back of his head as he looked up to a London almost unrecognisable to his knowledge; airships of wood, steel and brass plied the airways and everywhere there was the smell of combusting coal. His eyes fell to the streets below, and made out steam-driven, internal combustion engined vehicles travelling the streets, "Just what is going on?" He looked about lost and confused. "This _cannot_ be Earth."

"Oh but it is. Just not the Earth you find irresistible so very much."

The Time Lord turned to the direction of the semi-ethereal voice, "Lady Rowellanuraven." A stately woman, with the bearing of one who knew her duty and expected others to acquiesce to her demands, stood beside his TARDIS. She looked around 40 Earth years in age, but the Doctor knew her to be closer to 2000, and was dressed in the stark white and brown robes of a Time Lord Councillor. Her dark hair was pulled back from her round, lightly tanned face and dark eyes, in a classic bun, with tendrils curling down from the temples.

The Time Lady nodded in greeting, "Doctor —."

"Just 'Doctor', I told you left _that_ name when I left Gallifrey." The Doctor looked aggrieved at the pronouncement and the fact that _she _knew his true name – a name left behind decades ago. "Surely the eminent Director of the CIA would know that?"

Lady Rowellanuraven shrugged, "As you wish 'Doctor'. This is _an_ Earth – next along the probability axis from your favourite planet as it happens." She reached into her robes and pulled out a small black pouch. "This is a handheld scanner slaved to your Time Capsule. You may find this useful," she handed it over to the Doctor. "You saw the destruction wrought across the Plural Zones?" The Doctor nodded, "That originated from this world and these temporal-spatial coordinates as near as we can tell."

"So?" The Doctor turned the pouch over in his hands, tired of being used as a CIA pawn. "Surely there are other agents you could use."

Rowellanuraven breathed deeply. "Maybe, but no agent knows the Earth as you do."

"You yourself said," he waved a hand about, "_this _isn't the Earth I know."

"But it is close enough."

The Doctor sighed at the thought of the battle lost, "Very well. What does the CIA know?" He paused and added as an uncharacteristically sarcastic afterthought, "Or rather; what does the CIA wish to divulge?"

"Other than this Earth will be destroyed in seventeen solar-months and the destructive shockwave crashes across the probability axes, not a great deal." Rowellanuraven stated without emotion.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow as it was most unlike the CIA to admit a lack of knowledge. "Do you know what caused the destruction of Earth?"

"No. That is why you are here," She nodded to the pouch, "and I gave you that."

"Ah."

"Good hunting Doctor." The Lady Rowellanuraven, Director of the Gallifreyan Celestial Intervention Agency shimmered and disappeared without further word.

"I _despise_ holograms." Yet despite the annoyance, the Doctor rubbed his hands together, excited at the thought of exploring an 'elseworld' – a version of a world that existed in an alternative form to one he knew well. Yet that excitement was tempered by the knowledge that he appeared to only be here because of CIA meddling. He weighed the scanner and black pouch in his hand, contemplating leaving it in the TARDIS, before slipping it into one of his jacket pockets. He looked to his TARDIS to lock the doors and noticed something amiss. "What's that supposed to be?" Then it registered; a CCTV enclosure. "No, no, no! That's from a _nineteen_ nineties Police Box, we're in the Victorian era, you silly ship! What have the CIA done to you?" He locked the doors and as he watched, the anomaly disappeared with a flicker. "You still look like a twentieth century box though." He smiled. "But what is wrong with that?"

The Doctor looked at his ever faithful ship with a deep glow of affection. There she stood – eight feet tall and five feet square – in the middle of a suburban street; standing proudly in spite of her battered lines and faded, lack-lustre paint; shabby but respectable, bludgeoned yet unbowed, threatened but indestructible. His TARDIS… a police box! An English police box circa 1960 in the middle of a Victorian street! The design specification, laid down all those years ago, called for a chameleon-like ability to enable the ship to merge naturally with the landscape into which she materialised, thus rendering it inconspicuous. The Doctor smiled affectionately and patted the wood-effect side. She had made it all right when she first materialised in that foggy London scrapyard seven decades from 'now', she could not have been less conspicuous. But since then, there had been no other environmental metamorphoses. It was as if TARDIS had identified immediately with a symbol of law and order; a small pocket of succour, of sanctuary in the quest through time and space, "And you're quite right old girl," he said approvingly. He sighed and turned away from the TARDIS and with a flourish, conjures up a pocket watch. "Well if there are seventeen months, plenty of time to explore." He clapped his hands excitedly, "Come along Bernice…"

Once again it took a few moments for the fact that his friend was dead to register. His face dropped and he trudged sadly in the direction of the metropolis.

The Doctor headed down the slight hill towards the capital of the largest Empire this world had ever seen – would see for at least the next century, looking around in wonder at this city that was so like the London he knew of and had visited barely three decades ago in its timestream, yet it was different. Not only in terms of the steam-powered, internal-combustion driven vehicles, but the languid airships that drifted across the pale grey sky. After a few minutes aimless wandering, he decided to hail a cab – so much easier from which to conduct a sightseeing tour. A four-wheeled carriage hissed to a halt on rubber-tyre shod wheels, and the Time Lord moved to alight. "Just drive around if you please. I've… been out of town and…" The Doctor shrugged, "just want to see what's new."

The driver looked the odd-looking little man up and down, "You got the money guv, an' I'll drive you t' Mars."

Missing the sarcasm, the Doctor waved a hand about the vista, "Just around London will be fine. Money is little object." He reached into a pocket of his faded frock coat and tossed the cabbie a gold coin.

Weighing the disc of metal in his hand, the cabbie tried its purity by biting it. When it did not yield like lead, he pocketed it. Satisfied that the Doctor was on the level, he allowed the Time Lord to climb into the vehicle. Once his fare was safely aboard, the cabbie released the brake and the vehicle lurched off.

After a few minutes of watching the views, the Doctor suddenly realised that he was being spoken to, "Sorry. What was that?"

"So where y' been? Out o' the country?"

"In a manner of speaking," He thought for a moment. "I… it's been a few years since I was last in London. Decades really… Everything seems so different."

"Really," It was more a statement than a question. The driver seemed uninterested in hearing the facts, just engaging the Doctor in an attempt to get more money from him.

"Yes," He thought for a moment, "1866 it was… I think…"

The driver stole a glance at his passenger, wondering if he was older than he appeared, and revised his estimation of his fare's age upwards by a decade or so – perhaps closer to 60 than the 50 he originally thought – so it was highly probable that he _could_ had memories of London back then as a young man. Even so, he seemed vague about it. But really London had changed very little in physical terms in the last three decades; yes the adoption of mechanology had become widespread but the _city _had not changed.

Soon the Doctor tired of this aimless endeavour of looking for the similarities to, and divergences from, the Victorian London he knew of. Aside from the predominance of steam-based technology, there seemed little different bar more women appearing to be more independent – or more so than he knew of, though the fashions seemed no different at least to his recollections of past visits and his companions' appearances in contemporary times. Acutely aware that he had a job to do, he decided to terminate the exploration and travel directly to the most renowned source of scientific history in London – if not the world at this stage. The Doctor cleared his throat, "Kensington, Exhibition Road – the Science Museum. Please."

"You're the guv w' the gold." The cabbie turned the vehicle and headed, as directed, to Kensington and the Science Museum.

_Kensington_

The building rose like a monolith above the streets in the mid-afternoon light, quite unlike the temple-like structure of the Natural History Museum around the corner. The Science Museum seemed less… romantic, more functional. The Doctor wondered if he was the first to have such a thought; that despite this society's rabid embrace of all things mechanological, there was still a wariness and distrust of science and that it was somehow considered a 'lesser' subject. In worlds where science and engineering had been turned to producing weapons of wide-scale destruction such an attitude to those who worshipped at the alters of science, engineering and technology was to a certain extent justifiable, yet here – a world yet to harness the power of the atom or zero-point energy, a world seemingly in awe of steam-power and clockwork for everything, where warfare was still fought along lines of gunpowder and shot… maybe, despite all their attempts, humans were a race of artists. Art and the concept of beauty existed in every design, every level of mechanology comprised elegantly crafted designs wrought in iron, steel and brass and polished wood even the weapons on display were of polished walnut wood and brass.

As the Doctor looked around the foyer, there was a poster for an exhibition of "_Warriors from the Ice_" as a forthcoming attraction, yet it was the neighbouring advertisement that truly caught his attention: Atlantean artefacts. "Is it…?" He studied the advertisement. "They actually _know _where Atlantis was…" he read the slightly smaller print on the poster with a hint of alarm, "Atlantis _is_!"

_Winton Road Police Station, Limehouse_

Doctor Edison Litefoot was tired. He removed his wire-rim glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose and forehead. His shoulders slumped with fatigue as he turned his seat from facing the computator display unit to face into the mortuary laboratory that was his domain in the basement of the police station. He replaced his glasses and focused on an achingly beautiful, slender and graceful woman sat on the edge of the mortuary slab.

Henrietta 'Henri' Jago sat almost absent-mindedly twirling a strand of her long, auburn-coloured, silken hair around a finger as she waited for her friend. "Eddie?"

"That was the last of the report Miss Jago," Litefoot turned back to his desk and tapped a sequence of the raised brass keys with enamelled letters, each mounted in its own lever and cam. The machine whirred for a moment as it processed the commands. This computator was a self-built machine – well built by William Madsen, artificer and friend to the pair; the valves hummed as they projected an amber glow through the cooling air holes in the rear of the mahogany cabinet housing the visual display screen and making an oddly toasty smell he had heard tell of as ozone. When the whirring finished Litefoot moved a rounded, hand-sized block attached to the computator by a long fabric-covered cable. A pointer on the screen mimicked the actions of the block. With a few deft clicks of the left-most enamelled key, the computator sent the document to the printer and saved it to the station's communal Magnetic Drum Memory unit so that anyone in the station or police network could access if they so desired.

The pair watched as the document emerged page-by-page from the noisy printer, grinding away as different gear assemblies pulled blank sheets from the hopper underneath, took the paper though the waist-high machine whilst moving the printer head across the paper and then ejected the printed sheets from the top, collated and ready for filing. Henri slid down off the slab and crossed to the output device. She picked up the small sheaf of pages in a delicate hand.

"It seems almost inconceivable that it is barely three weeks since we met." Henri turned to Litefoot, "It seems such a long time ago and yet…"

Litefoot dipped his head slightly, "Our experiences of that week are summarised in fewer than a dozen pages." With the confirmation that the document has saved to the central memory, Litefoot switched the computator off. Henri handed him the small pile of pages from the printer which he rolled in half along their long edge and in half again before feeding the result into a cylinder eight and one-half inches long and two inches in diameter. He rummaged on the desk for a cap which he screwed onto the open end. "If we are sufficiently rapid in our escape," he smiled slightly, "we _may_ still make that Atlantis exhibit." He stood awkwardly, still stiff from injuries sustained in the atmotic ship factory and an old war wound despite the restorative effects of the Altar of Mortimus. Litefoot coughed. "But I must send this," he brandished the brass cylinder, "off first."

Henri stood ready at the door in a long, dark chocolate coat over her burgundy dress.

"It helps being an actress on the stage." Litefoot looked perplexed at the apparent non sequitur; Henri smiled and answered, "The ability to get ready so quickly."

Litefoot nodded in vague understanding as he stepped over to the pneumatic tube and deposited the cylinder within. With a puff of gas the cylinder and its contents disappeared into the system to be filed away somewhere in Scotland Yard. The MDM units were touted to remove the paperwork side of police and medical work yet there seemed to be more forms to complete than ever. Litefoot wondered who – if anyone – actually read the paper copies, or for that matter the mechanical copies, or if the capsules are deposited somewhere 'beyond', never to be seen of again. Sergeant Higgins had once said something similar to him on this theory. While the capsules have been produced to identical specifications for years, many had slight imperfections as identifiers such as scratches on the ends and sides, nicks in the screw threads and so on, and of course the four digit number on the shaft. Higgins had remarked that he made a brief study of the numbers and had never had any of the capsules back he had sent off. With a four digit code, there would have to be 9999 capsules across London Metropolitan Police's pneumatic network, so the chances of getting the same one back was quite low, but it did raise the questions, 'where did they go to?' and 'why are they numbered?'. No one Litefoot had spoken with had ever been able to answer either with any certainty. Many had never considered the point until then either.

His work done, Litefoot crossed to the hat-stand and picked up his hat and cane, offering Henri his arm, he opened the door, "Shall we?"

Henri smiled warmly at her gentle friend, "Gladly." She looped her arm through his and they left.

Minutes later, someone rapped on the door to Litefoot's laboratory office before opening it. Sergeant Megan Reeves-Latimer entered brandishing a folder, "Doctor Litefoot, we have had more reports of 'Spring-Heeled Jack'…" She looked about the empty room, "Now where have they got too? I _should _have used the blower!" She closed the door and left marginally annoyed that Litefoot had left with his assistant without informing anyone. They were civilians but they could at least have given some semblance of adhering to procedure.

_Science Museum, Atlantis Exhibition_

As a fairly new and well-publicised exhibit, the attendance of the Crosby exhibition on the ruins of Atlantis was quite high. Of course, being of an afternoon, it could be argued that many there had little else with which to occupy their time. However, such an argument could just as easily be levelled against the attendees of the latest Natural History Museum exhibit or performance by Ellen Terry – though the latter did tend to be evening or night time events. Yet science exhibits and indeed any interest in science were seen as an embarrassment at best and shameful at worst. Few now would reject computators or the other mechanological contrivances insinuated into daily life yet many were dismissive of the underlying sciences and principles behind them and those who showed any interest in such beyond a mere hobby interest.

In amongst this gathering a clownish little man wended his way from another room mumbling, "That just doesn't seem right." He pulled out a silver stick and black pouch. "The anomaly must originate from here… but those were inert…"

"Whatever do you mean sir?" The man looked up. Before him stood possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life – lives. She was tall and shapely, with long chestnut, auburn hair and the most remarkable brown eyes. Her facial features seemed delicately carved, as from ivory, her mouth was wide and upturned at the edges with a warm, welcoming smile and a gently dusting of freckles across the bridge of her small nose and full cheeks completed the picture of beauty wearing a burgundy dress and matching bonnet.

The Doctor ran a hand through his mop of hair as he pointed to one of the display cabinets. "That's a type-six neural stunner and that's not right at all. No, no, no." The woman blinked. "It does not belong to this planet."

"Ah." Henri did not know how to reply further to that.

The Doctor looked to the young woman suddenly aware that in this era, life on other worlds was believed in but unproven. Similarly heavier-than-air flight and certainly space travel were unheard of and doubtless deemed 'impossible' by the self same 'scientists' who a century ago would have held that steam-power was impossible. He smiled to himself as he wondered what they would make of the TARDIS.

"With respect ma'am," the room heard someone say interrupting the Doctor's reply, "I am unsure as to how a 'poorly noted tie can undermine the Empire'." It was said in a highly sarcastic tone that showed the speaker had no respect at all for the woman he was addressing.

"A sloppy half- or full-Windsor knot is the first symptom of serial indolence," a woman with a deep golden tint to her skin replied in an overly loud voice so as to inform the entire gathering. "Ignoring that infraction gives the impression that is it acceptable to be inappropriately attired. The next day it might be badly polished shoes; short, fat ties barely reaching the fourth button, or missing altogether." More than one gentleman instinctively looked to his own tie to ensure it was properly tied even those wearing bow ties. "Uncouth language, showing off and impoliteness would be next. Before one knows it, the rot of disharmony would start to dismantle everything that we know, love and cherish."

A new arrival – the curator – cleared his throat, addressing the woman with respect tinted with annoyance, "Miss Khorsandi, you have been warned about abusing our staff in the past." He turned to the target of the Persian woman's ire. "But Stevenson, you are a disgrace to the uniform. The tie _should _be tight against a buttoned collar. One more incident and the museum shall be forced to reconsider your employment."

Khorsandi smiled as the unfortunate usher was forced to retire and redo his attire. "Very good, we shall say no more about this."

"Miss Khorsandi," the curator breathed out, "You _may _have been in the right, but that does not mean you can berate my staff." He paused, "Is that clear?"

"Clear as crystal Mister Wyatt. Your apology is accepted."

"What apology?" I never said 'sorry'."

"You just did." The woman smiled.

The woman in front of the Doctor smiled to the gentleman with a cane stood next to her. "It appears Anousheh is up to her usual tricks." She smiled at her companion, "At least she seems happy enough." Her friend laughed with nervous embarrassment and he looked to the ground. The woman reached for his arm in a friendly gesture of reassurance as she looked to the odd little man in front of her. "I am sorry sir, you were saying…?"

"Doctor… Doctor John Smith." The Time Lord took the young woman's hand in his and shook it, "Miss…?"

The gentleman to her side cleared his throat, "Doctor Smith, this is Miss Henrietta Jago," He offered his hand and the Time Lord shook it.

"Ah… etiquette, I do beg your pardon Miss Jago," The Time Lord flushed with slight embarrassment at the social _faux pas_. It was times like this he missed Victoria – she knew these things. After all, despite its embrace of steam-driven mechanology, this _was _her world. "I beg your pardon too sir."

"Doctor Edison Litefoot at your service," Litefoot tipped his head in a bow, It… it seems Miss Jago has taken no offence and it is not my place to take such a stance." Litefoot indicated the room from which Smith had apparently emerged. "Now sir, what were you saying about those artefacts?"

"It is no 'Atlantean' artefact. It is a type-six neural stunner from an alien source."

"Alien?"

"As in not-of-this-Earth," The Doctor realised he had made yet another _faux pas_. "That is…"

"It is possible," Henri nodded, "But Crosby's expedition to the Atlantis Archipelago is well chronicled. For something alien to be included in this exhibition then…"

"It must have been _on _Atlantis?"

"Very possibly Doctor Litefoot," The Doctor studied a map of the Archipelago – amazed at the detail on the chart of the 122,000 square mile area of the fabled island some 406 miles west of the Straits of Gibraltar. He tapped the chart, "It looks a fascinating place. Must visit someday," he tried to make a mental note of the coordinates for future reference, but could feel the memory slipping even as he tried to form it. "That is remarkable in its detail."

"What else do you expect from an atmotic survey by the Her Majesty's Cartographic Office?" A young man in the dress uniform of a naval officer spoke from behind. He gave a slight bow. "Lieutenant-Commander Bartholomew Smith at your service."

There is something about the man that sparks a memory in the Time Lord, but almost as soon as it registers it is lost in the encroaching amnesia striking his long-term memory, "Ah another Smith eh? Once we get organised we can take the Joneses!"

Lieutenant-Commander Smith looked to the scruffily-dressed figure, "I beg your pardon sir?"

"Ah, I am Doctor John Smith of the Royal Society." The Doctor bowed, "These are my friends Miss Jago and Doctor Litefoot."

Smith took Henri's hand and kissed it before shaking Litefoot's. "Miss Jago, Doctor Litefoot."

"Lieutenant-Commander Smith, it is an honour to shake the hand of the captain of the first atmotic ship to survey Atlantis."

"Thank you Doctor Litefoot, but I was little more than a manager. The real work was carried out by others; cartographers, historians and scientists." He smiled, "Not a bad bunch for civilians." Then he remembered the company. "I beg your pardons." The Doctor massaged his temple, "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Just a slight headache," The Doctor smiled, "bought on no doubt by excitement at the exhibit. Though there is also the perplexity of the 'weapons' in the anteroom. They are rather elaborate in design."

The naval officer smiled, "Ah well can't help there I'm afraid. Chap to speak to would be Fraser – Colonel Fraser. He provided the science team with some counsel upon our return, ask Frobisher – the Welsh chap over there." He pointed to a bookish man in the corner, trying not to be noticed. "He headed the science team. He should know where Fraser docks these days." He tipped his head to the trio, "Miss Jago a pleasure, Doctors." He turned on his heel and moved to mingle with other guests.

"When you say 'elaborate' Doctor Smith, just to what are you alluding?"

"Merely how intricate the form of design is – how advanced the art of warfare seems to be."

"Since the first Neanderthal decided that he could poke his rival better with a stick than a finger, technology leaps have been war-driven. From the chariots and longbows of antiquity to atmotic bomber, automatic rifles and the mechanology of today; it has all been about delivering death to the enemy harder and faster than they can deal it to us and better than we have in the past. The sad truth is that war is to human invention that manure is to rhubarb."

The Doctor nodded and sighed, "I am sad to say, that is not just a human motif. My people knew peace for millennia and became one of the most stultifying and rigid races in existence. There has been no progress for that time – if anything, there has been regression with the stagnation, rules and protocol became ritual and law."

"Doctor Smith…" Litefoot noticed that Doctor Smith had his eyes screwed up tightly and a hand clenched as though in great pain.

"I…" The Time Lord coughed, "It…" His hand went to his forehead and he opened his eyes. Instead of being blue they were aflame with white fire. "It's coming." Then just as suddenly the fire extinguished itself and his eyes returned to blue. He blinked and clapped his hands together, "Let's go see if Frobisher _does_ know where we can find Colonel Fraser." He smiled, "The game – as they say – is afoot."

3. Of Gods and Godlike

_Camberwell_

The car arrived at 23 Portman Square at a little before six in the evening, just as the gas lamps were being lit by men with extendible poles as night started to fall with a vengeance. Number twenty-three was a large and impressive four-storey structure frowning down on the street with an air of brooding uncertainty. Yet it was starting to turn to seed. The Doctor looked out at the elegant, ornate lines typical of Victorian houses throughout London, but it had the appearance of encroaching dilapidation and neglect. One of the trees in the front garden was in need of removal and several windows were boarded in haphazard fashion. It was apparent that either money and/or attention were in need here, but there signs of life in the house despite its run-down appearance. Even the street frontage was similar; iron railings in need of cleaning and painting and a garden running to overgrowth.

The trio walked up the short path and the Doctor rapped on the door. It was opened after a few minutes by a butler who looked at the Doctor as if he had just deposited a heap of fresh manure on the doorstep.

"Can I help you ... Sir?"

The Doctor simply looked at the Butler. "Ah yes, my man go tell your master that Doctor Smith is here to see him." The Butler just looked at him "This is Doctor Litefoot and Miss Jago."

"I see... and the Colonel is expecting you?" As an afterthought he added, "Sir."

The Doctor smiled, "The Colonel should have received my card by this morning's post."

At this, the Butler smiled coldly, "I am sorry... Sir but we have received no such card, good evening."

"Ah." The Doctor grabbed the door before the butler could close it and spoke earnestly to the butler, "Listen to me. It is of _paramount_ importance that I talk to Colonel Fraser about the Atlantian artefacts. I am attached to the Royal Society; I assure you that this is very, very important."

The butler looked long and hard at the Doctor, "Very well, Doctor Smith. If you would care to wait in the library, I shall inform the Colonel you are here."

Colonel Malcolm Fraser was hunched over his writing desk in the drawing room making meticulous notes in a leather bound book. He still displayed a military bearing down to the close-cropped greying hair and dressed in reserved dark clothing. His complexion spoke of someone who had spent most of his adult life in hotter climes 'putting down the natives'. His movements hinted at some long-term illness that had probably been picked up at the same place. He was an old warhorse who, against his best efforts, was slowly fading away.

There was a knock at the door. Fraser's waxed moustache twitched in annoyance. He put down his pen, leaned back and in a gravely voice barked, "Come."

The butler slipped into the darkened room. "I'm sorry to disturb you sir but there are a pair of gentlemen and a lady to see you."

"As you well know, Carlshaw, we are _not_ at home to visitors."

"Yes sir but one of the gentlemen claims to be from the Royal Society."

Fraser's nose twitched, "Claims? D' you think the fellow's lying?"

Carlshaw barely pondered the question, "It is not my position to judge sir. He is rather… dishevelled more akin to a tramp than a doctor."

Grabbing his cane, Fraser struggled to get up. "Well if he _is_ from the Royal Society he could be no worse than those dullards from the ministry." He collected his pipe from the desk, "They in the library Carlshaw?"

The butler nodded. "All visitors are directed to the library as you instructed sir."

The Doctor looked around the study. Like the outside of the house standards were beginning to slip, the surfaces had not been dusted for some time. He turned round to his new companions, "We need to know where these anachronistic weapons come from. Fraser is our only lead so far, so it is best you let me do all the talking. It needs some one of my lightness of touch to bring him round." He stepped over to the door and opened it, gazing up and down the hall

He saw a flicker of movement from the darkness near the top of the stairs. He peered up in to the gloom to determine what it was. A young woman, in her later teens or early twenties sat at the top step, wrapped up in a flowing dress – similar to what Victoria wore when he first encountered her, listening intently. The Doctor frowned, upset at the memory of yet another companion abandoned out of her own time.

Within moments Carlshaw opened the door again and Fraser puffed his way into the room. The Colonel was approaching his seventh decade and the years had not been kind to him. He peered almost myopically in to the gloom of the study, "Doctor?"

The Doctor leapt up from the chair he was sprawled in to shake the man's hand vigorously.

Fraser hobbled to one of the chairs and lowered himself in to it, "Now how can I help you sir?"

"Doctor John Smith of the Royal Society," At this Colonel Fraser straightened up in his chair slightly.

"What can I do for you Doctor Smith?"

"If it's not too much trouble we would like to take a look at the Atlantian artefacts." He narrowed his eyes, "_Your_ artefacts – those _not _on display in Kensington."

Fraser's whole demeanour suddenly became far more cautious and guarded, "And why would you want to examine such artefacts?" Fraser puffed on his pipe, "Assuming that they exist of course."

"Well, not only am I interested in understanding the underlying science principles, I am something of an inventor and I was wondering if they could be reproduced."

Fraser narrowed his eyes, "And what would you do with that knowledge sir?"

"Nothing, _nothing_ at all. For you see, information is the means to an end in itself." The Doctor thought for a moment, "If the technology should fall into the wrong hands, then the information could provide a counter."

"But," It was almost possible to see the thought processes in Fraser's head, "If 'they' had the technology, surely 'they' could counter the counter?"

"Well yes, but…" The Doctor suffered a derailment in his thought processes, "Maybe the technology could be adapted to other purposes."

Still staring wearily at him Fraser passed a set of keys to Carlshaw, "From the top shelf I think Carlshaw."

With a mutter of confirmation the butler disappeared out the door. Whilst the Doctor sat struggling to gather his thoughts, Litefoot leaned forward in earnest, "If you have no objection to me asking, by how did you come across such items?"

Fraser regained some of his composure and puffed his chest with pride, "It is well-known that I am in the trade for such curios. Two years ago, a rogue approached me by the name of Jack Bannister. He claims to be an 'owner of an import company'," At that moment Carlshaw came back in with what look like overly-ornate metallic, flintlock duelling pistols, yet instead of the lock there was a green crystal chamber. They appeared oddly lightweight for their size and at Fraser's request laid them on a low table.

The Doctor fished in his pocket and pulled out his jeweller's loupe. Fixing it in place, the eyepiece gave a small, electronic whirl as different lenses came in to focus. He started talking to himself. "Well, well." He looked up at the others, "The particle-decay in the energy sources indicates great age somewhere in the excess of four thousand years." With a spasm of muscles, the eyepiece fell from its position, straight into the Doctor's open hand.

Fraser snorted at this, "I think your toy has thrown a gear." He pointed to the Doctor's loupe, "Or that you have lost your marbles. It is a scientific and religious fact that the planet Earth has only been in existence for no more than a thousand years before the birth of Christ."

The Doctor looked up with a slight grin, "But what of the fossil record?"

Fraser pressed back in his chair; a condescending smile split his face, "A remarkable contrivance. Wallace and Darwin gave a well-substantiated theory, but with no indication as to what gave the initial… fire of life. It is all well and good to publish a theory that everything _evolved_ from earlier antecedents, but what gave rise to those antecedents?"

"Turtles all the way down?" Litefoot muttered.

"I beg your pardon Doctor Litefoot." Fraser looked to the police doctor with narrowed eyes.

Litefoot flushed, "At one lecture I recently attended at the Society, the topic was the planet. The lecture hypothesised that the world was a flat disc supported on the backs of four elephants standing on the shell of a giant tortoise. One of the attendees asked what the turtle was standing on in this rather odd model that contravened everything recorded about astronomy and planetary sciences. The lecturer countered with 'turtles all the way down'. Of course, that assertion was met with much derision…" Litefoot tailed off, his face now scarlet with embarrassment.

"That the theory was built on an unsubstantiated basis?"

Litefoot's voice was rather small, "Something like that." Deeply embarrassed, he looked to his feet and seemed totally unaware when Henri patted his arm with friendly affection.

Fraser waved a hand dismissively, "Prometheus the Titan did not give _fire_ to humanity. He gave the _fire of life_ to humanity – the initial spark that gave rise to the very organisms from which these evolutionists claimed we descend." Fraser snorts, "Then again who is to say how this world formed?"

The Doctor muttered something under his breath that sounded like 'must find out one day' but dismissed the questioning looks with a simple shake of the head, "I see your point Colonel, but how do objects from your collection end up in the Kensington Science Museum?"

Fraser raised an eyebrow, "They are merely on loan."

"You mean it is coincidence that they just happen to be in to the Atlantis exhibition?"

"Quite. Crosby came by here a week or so ago wanting me to examine a couple of pieces he had bought from Atlantis. Aside from some," he thought for a moment, "minor cosmetic variations, they were virtually identical to these duelling pistols," he patted the box on the table, "And the pair I _loaned_ Crosby for his blessed exhibit."

"So," Henri piped up, "Somehow this Bannister got hold of Atlantis weapons two years ago; _before_ the Crosby expedition was even announced."

"As I said," Fraser is agitated, the fatigue starting to show on the elderly man, "I have _no _idea how Bannister and Jenkins came into possession of Atlantean weapons two years ago. Two weeks ago, I would not have put it past them to have stolen them from Crosby but…"

Something registered with Litefoot through his embarrassment, "Jenkins? Would that be Albert Jenkins?"

Fraser coughed harshly, "I believe so. I think Bannister referred to his associate as 'Bert'. It might have been 'Bart'…" He thought for a moment. "No, no it _was_ Bert. Why d' you ask Doctor?"

"The name… 'Albert Jenkins' was a case study in my final year at Cambridge two years ago before call-up. This 'Jenkins' was found 'insensate yet vocal' in London."

"I beg your pardon?" Fraser blinked at the medical phraseology.

"Unresponsive to stimuli yet screaming," Litefoot recited from memory. "Jenkins was admitted to Saint Cedd's in Limehouse. The details are unrecorded but there was an 'incident' in which Jenkins was injured. He was left screaming – according to the study, he screamed uninterrupted during which he did not respond to external stimuli." Litefoot realised he was talking to non-medical practioners. He coughed nervously. "He… the study was to try and ascertain what caused the affliction. I… do not recall if anyone did derive a solution."

"What happened to Mister Jenkins?"

"Committed to Bethlehem Hospital if I recall." Litefoot shuddered at the memory and knowledge of what that place was like, "He died there two days later, still screaming."

The Time Lord thought for a moment, "It is possible… what if the 'Atlanteans' got hold of…" He trailed off as he followed his own train of thought.

Fraser massaged his forehead, "Afraid you've lost me old chap."

The Doctor took a deep contemplative breath before beaming and clapping his hands excitedly, "Iyteans!"

"Eighteen? What sort of name is 'eighteen' for a race?"

"No Colonel Fraser, 'Eye-tee-an'. Thousands of your years ago, the Iyteans were the sole galactic police force. It is possible that somehow their technology ended up scattered on this world."

"Thousands of 'your' years ago…" Fraser rubbed his forehead again, "Are you trying to say you are not of this Earth as well?" Fraser shook his head in disbelief, "You sound so… English."

"Thank you." The Doctor clapped, "What you have just said Doctor Litefoot is exactly the reaction recorded after a forced mental takeover by an Iytean."

"And what, pray tell is one of these 'Iyteans' when they are at home?"

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair. "When not inhabiting a host body, the Iyteans are – or rather were – an amoeboid race without fixed internal or external structure." It sounded as though he were reciting from an encyclopaedia in his memory, "They are small; massing no more than four to seven pounds and appear as an oily liquid. Though translucent, no permanent internal organs or structure can be seen; temporary specialised organs may be formed from time-to-time, but essentially, the protoplasmic Iytean is a constantly shifting, flowing mass of formless, semi-solid matter."

"Such a creature is against all natural laws and contrary to God's design."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed and hardened, "Natural laws of _this_ pathetic planet perhaps. As for 'God' well any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

Fraser turned scarlet with anger, "_Get Out_!"

_Bishopgate _

Litefoot arranged for the car to take them to where the Doctor had said he had lodgings. They were almost there, and the Doctor had said barely a word on the way back after the abrupt and near-violent ejection from Fraser's house. Instead the Time Lord was not so silently fuming to himself. As the destination came in sight he finally spoke to no one in particular. "To let this continue in dangerous ignorance is an error." He alighted and stepped up to what looked like a large blue box. "Such acts would lead to Earth being destroyed in seventeen solar-months."

Henri held onto Litefoot's arm as they exited the car to ensure the Doctor's mood improved. "Did he say the Earth will expire in fewer than two years?" Then the object towards which the Doctor headed registered. "I thought Police Boxes were smaller and hexagonal?"

"I believe so, yes… Is he unlocking it?"

The Doctor unlocked the door of the box and headed inside waving the pair to follow him. An intrigued Henri and Litefoot stepped though the open door. "It… it is _impossible_." Henri looked about the white-grey walls covered with recessed roundels and a mushroom-shaped console that struck the pair as somewhat familiar, "Larger on the inside than outside." Henri looked to Litefoot.

"Just like the Temple of Mortimus."

The name sparked a deep memory in the mind of the Time Lord, "Mortimus?" He looked to the middle distance, "I think I used to know a Mortimus…" For a moment he tried to remember in what capacity he knew the name, but then he crossed to the console and tapped away at a keyboard, the attempt forgotten about. "The data banks verify what I thought – what this," he took the silver tablet from his pocket, "said. I _thought_ I recognised something about the energy weapon. But then, when you reach my age you always recognise something." He pointed to a television screen set into the wall opposite the doors. Upon the screen a graph plotted itself, decreasing as the cursor moved to the right. "The isotope decay indicates Iytean technology. Their civilisation was destroyed in one of the first Rutan engagements against the Sontarans." He looked to the scanner display, "This Professor Summerfield knows his stuff, must try to visit him…"

There was a few moments' silence as the humans absorbed the information displayed on the screen so like screen of Litefoot's computator but still very different. The Doctor was almost oblivious to the presence of the investigators.

Then someone knocked on the door.

4. A Woman Comes A-Knocking

_Bishopgate_

Everyone stopped and stared at the ship's double doors in shocked silence. In the moment of silence that followed there was another rap at the door.

"Are you not going to answer that?"

The Doctor looked to Henri, pushed down the door lever and watched as the great doors swung open before he crept through them. The fog was gathering as he stuck his head out of the TARDIS doors. In front of him was the young lady he saw hiding at the top of the stairs at Colonel Fraser's house. In the gaslight she looked about seventeen. Her long brown hair had been piled up in to a demure bun and a lavender hat had been pined at a fashionably rakish angle on top. The hat matched the colour of the jacket and offset the cream, white and gold of the wide flowing dress. Just peeking out of one sleeve was a handkerchief monogrammed with 'J. F'.

"Yes can I help you?" Then with barely a pause he continued, "Well come along Miss Fraser out with it."

"How did you ..?"

"As the Great Detective says, it's 'all very simple when you know what to look for'…"

Henri stood with a slight concern, "Miss Fraser, why not come inside, sit down and explain?"

The Doctor looked about with a hint of annoyance at being usurped in his own ship before he turned address the new arrival when Miss Fraser slipped past him in to the ship. With a cry of anguish he shot in after her. He found her just beyond the double doors looking around taking everything in; the roundels, the console, the chairs and standard lamp and the door open to the corridors beyond.

"Oh my…" She whispered, "It's bigger on the inside!" She promptly collapsed.

The Doctor looked about panicked as Litefoot knelt awkwardly to the floor. He examined the young woman and took a deep breath, "She just fainted, she needs is hot, strong, sweet tea, just the thing for shock."

"Be right back," The Doctor disappeared down the corridor.

Henri leant back from where she knelt opposite Litefoot, to watch him disappear before looking to her friend, "Eddie, what have we got ourselves involved with now?"

"I do not know," Litefoot shook his head as he looked directly at Henri, "I simply do not know."

He lifted the phial of green powder up to the light, there was perhaps enough for three or four more draughts of the solution left. He would have to procure some more if he wanted to proceed. He could return to where he got the last supply to see if they had any more but he needed to find where the source was located.

"When we find the ship we can synthesise much more."

He did not know where that thought came from. It was happening more and more, thoughts spoken in a blubbering voice that was not his own, arching across his mind. It had started soon after he had started taking the solution. There could be manifest dangers in any side effects and perhaps he should stop taking this stuff. He looked at the beaker of milky-white liquid that sat cooling on the bench. He looked at it for a long moment, the sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip. His resolve was firm; he would throw the latest batch of solution away, along with what was left of the green powder chemical. He walked unsteadily to the lab sink and turned on both taps. As the twin jets of water blasted down he stood and watched them for countless minutes. Then in one fluid motion turned back to the bench, grabbed the beaker and drank the contents in two gulps. He then tottered to the corner of the lab and dropped boneless in to the armchair that sat there. Already a warm glow was spreading through him, his extremities were beginning to tingle and his skin was started to feel tight. As his thoughts were starting to loose cohesion, the strange bubbling hypnotic voice was back

"First we will look through Jellico's notes, and then we will look for Carruthers."

The Doctor regarded Julia Fraser as she lay sprawled in his favourite armchair. She should not have had such a violent reaction on entering the ship; probably some latent emphatic element in her genetic makeup he thought and wondered why he thought that. He lent forwarded and lightly slapped her face. "Miss Fraser, your tea is getting cold."

It was almost as if a switch had been pulled and she started to gather herself.

After a few moments she started to speak. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you at… home Doctor Smith. But I overheard your conversation with grandfather and I think you can help him."

The Doctor looked about worriedly, Henri and Litefoot stepped closer to hear more clearly, "In what way could I help him?"

"He has been collecting these Atlantean artefacts for about two years. Everything was fine until about a few months ago when grandfather was examining one bought back by the Crosby expedition. This one fired a beam of light that destroyed another piece – almost identical as far as I could tell – in his collection. Since then he became obsessed with the possibilities of the power of these weapons. He has dismissed nearly all the staff on the most flimsy of excuses, maintaining that anyone could have been spies for foreign governments."

The Doctor made a sour noise at the back of his throat, "Always with the foreign governments."

Henri scribbled something in a notebook, "If you'll forgive my indulgence? How did your grandfather come by these artefacts in the first place?"

"He was contacted by two scoundrels, Jack Bannister and Bert Jenkins, a couple of borderline criminals if ever I saw them!"

The Doctor frowned inwardly to himself as Henri asked, "Yes, but I do have to ask is who put them in contact with your grandfather?"

"That would have been grandfather's one-time friend, Sir Reginald Carruthers."

Henri looked up from her notebook, "His 'one-time friend'? Did they have some kind of dispute?"

"About a month ago, Sir Reginald suffered a robbery, in which some of his more exotic items were stolen. For a time Sir Reginald believed grandfather was responsible and they have not spoken since."

The Doctor came to a decision, "Thank you Miss Fraser, you have been very helpful."

"You do promise to help me, don't you?" She almost pleaded, "We must do what we can to save grandfather from himself."

"I assure you; I promise to do my best to see your grandfather out of this dark path safely, Miss Fraser. If you can think of anything more or anything else happens do not hesitate to get in contact."

Litefoot looked to Henri, "Perhaps we should escort Miss Fraser home. It is too late to call on Carruthers tonight. We can do so first thing in the morning." Litefoot offered his arm and she took it. "Doctor Smith, shall we call on you tomorrow?" The Doctor nodded, sad at the thought of being alone in the TARDIS overnight.

Litefoot and the two women headed into the gathering fog towards Litefoot's borrowed police car.

The lock on the French windows shattered easily. It pushed them open and stepped into the room. There had been changes since the last time it had been here; things were no longer kept on open display. It walked round to one of the locked cabinets, grasping the handle, with one savage pull ripped it off its hinges. Roman pottery and Tibetan prayer bowls fell out, smashing to pieces on the ground.

At that point the dominant male of the house burst in through the door, "What the deuce is going on here?"

He was jacket-less and his collar and tie missing in preparation for his sleep ritual. Its search had disturbed him. It spun round to face the human, who drew back slightly when faced with some thing intrinsically alien. It brought round the heavy wooden-framed, glass-paned door in a sweeping motion that connected with the joint in the human's knee. It revelled in the sound of crunching bones and pleasure in the scream that escaped from the human's lips as wood splintered and glass disintegrated ripping into the human's leg. As the human's ruined leg could no longer hold him, he collapsed to the floor.

It reached for him, but hesitated. This was not like the last times, it was not here to satisfy its own bloodlust and hunger; it needed information. It had to hurry; it could already hear the other occupants of the house stirring. Quickly it crossed the room, closed and locked the door before returning to the prone and lonely figure on the floor. Its voice bubbling in its thought; "Where is the tranquiliser?"

When it got no response it reached out to grasp the shattered and shredded joint, applied pressure, grinding the broken bones together. The human shouted his response that he had no idea what he was talking about.

"The phials of green powder; are they still here? Have you bought any more?"

Another prod brought forth a scream of "No!"

It executed a hard punch to the chest that broke three ribs. It raised its hand to strike again, "Wrong answer!" It barked, "Where is the patrol vessel?"

The human shook his head through the pain, "The what?"

A slap of the hand broke the cheekbone of the male, "Wrong answer! Where is the patrol vessel?"

The male burbled through chipped teeth and blood, "I... I do not know where this vessel is."

The next blow broke three ribs on the other side of his chest. "Where are the humans Jenkins and Bannister?"

The male screamed, "I do not know!"

By this time other people had reached the door to the study and were trying to force it open.

The next blow fractured the human's skull, "Wrong answer! "Where are the humans Jenkins and Bannister?" It repeated with increasing anger, "_Where are the humans Jenkins and Bannister_?"

The next morning, the Doctor was feeling quite self-satisfied as he opened the double doors and stepped outside. He was locking the outer doors as he sniffed the air, "Smell that crisp autumn air." He took a second breath, "If not for the unburned carbon." His nose wrinkled in disgust, "This will be a short little escapade."

He walked down the hill again to signal for a cab. He passed a paper vendor on the corner who was shouting the headlines to the world in general. Idly he read the hoardings as he tried to attract a cab and set about travelling to the Carruthers' residence.

The vendor started shouting again, "Extra, extra read all about it Sir Reginald Carruthers found murdered in cold blood in own home."

"Oh, that's a fly in the ointment!"

_Baker Street, Marylebone_

There was a constable stationed outside the door, outwardly the only sign anything was wrong. From across the road, a range-finder picked up the Doctor as he exited the hansom cab. The heads-up display gave details of the distance and angle of the shot. The range-finder tracked the Time Lord as it followed him to the house with the policeman on the door and watched while he argued with the officer.

"And you say that you are expected sir?"

The Doctor looked up at the constable standing on the step, blocking the entrance, "Yes, that's right Constable; Doctor Smith of the Yard."

The constable was not drawn by the attempt at subterfuge. "The family has just suffered a sudden death. They are not up to seeing any on at the moment sir!"

"What?" The Doctor was incredulous, "They are British are they not: stiff upper lip and all that?" The Doctor pushed his hands into his pockets, "That's very good, very astute of you Constable, very forward thinking. Who is your superior officer, is he here and can I speak to him? It is important."

The constable paused for a few moments, "If you will wait here 'sir'." He turned and went inside.

A small woman appeared on the doorstep. She wore a brown tweed skirt suit and matching fedora-style hat. She looked down at the Doctor, "What's this? What's all this shouting? We'll have no trouble here!"

The Doctor muttered to himself, "Ah police_women_, how very forward-thinking!" He smiled, "There is no one shouting or indeed making any trouble here, detective..?"

"Detective Sergeant Reeves-Latimer, Metropolitan Police."

"Oh," Despite the divergence of this world in terms of technology, it was more advanced in terms of equality, "How awfully jolly for you."

Narrowing her eyes, Reeves-Latimer looked at the Doctor. "Just what is your business here?"

"It's something that the late Sir Reginald Carruthers was working on." The catch-all term for a multitude of sins suddenly came to the Doctor, "A matter of national security for the Royal Society."

The constable cleared his throat, "He _said_ he was from the Yard."

Reeves-Latimer looked to the constable and then at the Doctor, "So a time-waster then?"

The Doctor was about to reply when Henri walked down the interior hallway. "Sergeant, if a Doctor… Doctor Smith!" Henri beamed at her friend from the day before. "It is good to see you again."

"You know this gentleman?" Reeves-Latimer turned to Henri, "So is he from the Yard or the Royal Society?"

Henri thought for a second, slightly unsure of her memory and of how best to avoid getting the funny little man into trouble. "Both I think… seconded from the latter by the former."

"He's gone inside the building now!" A figure watched from the attic of the building opposite as the group left the Constable on the doorstep and entered the Carruthers residence.

"That's no problem; we planned for this contingency, switching to deep scan." A prone figure on the attic floor pressed a sequence into the control pad on the side of the high-tech telescope pointed out of the attic window, and sighted down the period Lee-Metford infantry rifle sat on a tripod. The first figure knelt down so that he was almost level with the second.

"Are you sure this is within the remit of our mission?"

"You worry far too much Boaz. We have both seen, first hand and much more evidence, how he is a dangerous rogue element that must be contained."

The inside of the Carruthers residence was an example of an affluent town house; thick carpeting, fine furniture and not a spot of dust, most unlike Fraser's residence. The Doctor rushed into the hall and up to the table, to start rummaging through the envelopes that were stored there. With a sour look on his face and a disparaging noise at the back of his throat when he failed to find what he was looking for, he turned back to Henri.

"There is more to this than meets the eye."

Henri tried to guide him towards a room at the end of the hallway, "What is the problem, Doctor?"

The Doctor ignored her question, "Who found the body?"

"That would have been Sir Reginald's son, but..."

"Where is he?"

Apart from the large windows and fireplace, there was not an area of wall space that was not covered in books. Part of the shelving hinged inwards as the Doctor entered the library to find a tall, handsome man in his early twenties. He was standing by the window seething at being held captive in what was his own home.

The man turned angrily at the opening of the door, "By all that's decent, what do you think you are doing…? You are not the police are you?" He glared at the Doctor and Henri.

"Ah there you are, _Mister_ Carruthers, please take a seat."

"I would prefer to stand sir. Now explain yourself!" Thomas Carruthers stood at an easy posture; he was dressed in dark brown, with an elegant and fashionable cut to the cloth. His brown hair was cut short but with prominent sideburns. His rosy fleshy skin spoke of a healthy background. He glared at the Doctor.

Unabashed the Time Lord replied, "But of course, _Mister_ Carruthers. We are here to investigate the death of your father. It is a great matter of importance to Her Majesty's Government."

"And that gives you the right to barge your way in here, disrupt a grieving family, throwing your weight around, does it?"

"Frankly _Mister_ Carruthers, it does. Now the sooner you tell us what happened here, the sooner we can leave."

Carruthers looked at the Doctor with conflicting emotions raging within him. After a moment he seemed to subdue his inner demons and come to a decision. He sighed. "I think that this incident is connected with the burglary that we had some months before."

"And why is that, young man?"

"Last time certain items were taken from my father's collection, small glass bottles full of green powder." He held up his thumb and forefinger to show the small size of the phials. "When that… thingwas murdering my father..." For a few moments the façade broke along with his voice, and he struggled to regain himself in front of these strange, unknown people. Henri instinctively felt the need to help and comfort this hurting young man. The Doctor reached out and snatched her hand, holding it fiercely, slightly shaking his head.

"I was the first to the study. I can still hear his wet voice asking questions."

The Doctor leaned forward interested, "What questions and more importantly what were the answers?"

"The questions were repeated over and over again; 'Where is the patrol ship?' 'Where are the phials of the tranquiliser?' 'Where are Jenkins and Bannister?' 'Where are the phials of green powder?' over and over."

"Hmm, what a memory you have." He pondered for a moment, "What were the answers?"

"My father did not know; he did not know anything and that thing killed him for it. And I remember it, _sir_, because my father died because of it. I shall never forget it."

"Did any one else know about the green powder?"

"Colonel Fraser and Doctor Henry Jellicoe; I believe that father had a falling out with both of them over the burglary and also father gave one of the bottles to Doctor Jellicoe, to attempt to analyse. He failed. He also failed to return it."

"What burglary?"

"Two years ago, father purchased ten of these phials from a man named Bannister; they were supposed to come from some exotic Eastern country," the young man scoffed at this assertion. "Father _liked_ to collect exotic rubbish of all kinds. The tubes interested him for a while, but he soon decided Bannister was more confidence artist than business man and stopped dealing with him. Though, father _did _keep the phials safe in his collection and made periodic attempts to discover whatever he could about them. The powder was probably verdigris scrapings from a church in the Midlands somewhere than some new chemical…" He trailed off. "The last attempt to discover their import came a month ago. Father invited two of his friends – Colonel Fraser and Doctor Jellico…"

"Yes we know of Colonel Fraser but who is Doctor Jellico?"

Doctor Litefoot chose that moment to enter. "Doctor Henry Jellico is a noted medical researcher." He held a black-bound notebook tightly in his left hand.

"Quite Doctor Litefoot; Father showed his strange artefacts to the two of them and went so far as to give one as a sample to Jellico when the latter suggested that he might be able to analyse it. After Jellico bade father and Fraser good night and left, the pair of them had a bitter fight – from what I could overhear there was some 'hare-brained scheme' Fraser wanted father's support for. The next night, the scullery window was destroyed and… well, Jellico and Fraser were the only two who knew where the collection was kept – even I had no idea. The 'burglar' knew exactly what he was looking for."

"So suspicion fell on Fraser and Jellico?"

"Yes. Colonel Fraser has a known interest in collecting similar artefacts. For a time he was the perceived architect of the act. But the police could find no proof; all the accusation did was to make the breach between Fraser and my father more permanent."

"What of Doctor Jellico?"

"He had no apparent motive and nothing was found in his house to indicate that he was in any way involved. Oddly, he claimed that the phial he had been given had been destroyed in a laboratory fire. Father always thought it was just an excuse to return the piece, perhaps out of spite at being accused of the theft. It was an expensive excuse though – the fire destroyed Jellico's laboratory."

The Doctor suddenly thought of something, "What of the second voice you heard? Did you recognise it?"

"No." Carruthers seemed to bristle at being questioned so directly, "It belonged to neither Jellico nor Fraser, and the fleeing figure was shorter, heavier in build and seemed younger than either of the two men."

"Perhaps he was a confederate of Fraser?"

Carruthers glared at the Doctor, "Perhaps. I have no idea of the company either kept."

"Thank you, Mister Carruthers; you have been most patient with us." Henri tried to placate the situation.

"Yes," The Doctor leapt to his feet, "Most patient, you can return to your family. The constable can show us to the study, and then we will leave."

Before Carruthers left, he paused and looked straight at the Doctor. "Promise me, sir, that if you are being truthful, you will find this monster and bring him to justice!"

The Doctor just nodded. After Carruthers was gone, the Doctor turned to Henri and Litefoot, "To the study?"

Henri nodded and made to stand, "What did you find?"

It took Litefoot only a few moments to inform the Time Lord and his friend of the facts: that Sir Reginald Carruthers had been beaten to death; that the door lock had been turned to powder and that when Thomas had finally got into the room the intruder had picked up a heavy armchair and thrown it at him. Whatever it was that had carried out the murder, it was incredibly strong. From the description the younger Carruthers had given, the figure was a large, heavily-set, stocky man. The Doctor stood up.

"Right, let's go and scrutinise the study with an intense scrutiny." He thought for a moment as to the logic of his statement and shook his head. Litefoot led them down the corridor and opened the door, half-urging Henri not to enter, though what was left of Sir Reginald's body had been removed to the mortuary whilst Litefoot went to the library, but the sight was not for the squeamish. Again it was a room that spoke of money, display cabinets covered the walls and one deep-seated armchair sat near the centre of the room but its covering had been shredded. The twin to that seat was upside down and broken against the bookcase by the door. Blood and other fluids plastered the floor around the shredded chair and wall behind. The Doctor walked into the room followed by the constable, something was wrong. The Doctor was trying to trace what it was; the smell of gas, and no, that was only a small part of it.

Henri, stood on the threshold of the room beside Litefoot, sniffed deeply. "Does that smell like gas to you?"

The Doctor turned to reply, when he saw a red dot of light travelling across her chest. It travelled on and alighted on a small side-table. From across the street came the crack of a rifle and from behind the Doctor came the sound of a breaking window pane. He did not need to turn around to know there was the fury of an expanding cloud of burning gas behind him.

5. Escape to Danger

If he had not have known better, the Doctor would have believed Time had slowed. A populist theory held that when one was involved in something truly dreadful and life-threatening – during periods of mortal danger, the event appears to occur in slow motion or that the individual in danger perceived that they had an almost hyperactive awareness of what was happening – taking in far more detail than could possibly be absorbed. Walking in time as he did, the Doctor knew the flow of time was immutable only slowed or accelerated by mechanical means and, despite everything he had witnessed over his long life, the Doctor had never really witnessed the phenomenon firsthand. He attributed the occurrence in others to an increase in adrenalin, precipitating a rapid increase in muscle control affording the opportunity, however small, to take evasive action – an alteration in the individual's perception of time, forcing the body to assimilate as much information as possible to deduce a way out of danger. Someone had told him it was something akin to a near-death experience in which the individual's psyche, id, consciousness or soul momentarily detached itself from the individual in question allowing the individual to experience the event in a different timeframe. He had always dismissed either 'explanation'. Yet, here he was now falling to the floor in what felt like slow motion.

He looked to the doorway as he fell; Litefoot grabbed Henri by the arm, pulling her away from the doorway behind the wall. The Doctor's hand delved into his pocket, sorting through items that were there. In one fluid motion, he pulled out a long, fat silvery tube and pressed a stud at one end. The other end irised apart and opened up like an umbrella, he cowered behind it. The ball of flame broiled over the top of him and engulfed the policeman stood like a statue in the doorway. His clothing burst into flame and he ran screaming back down the corridor. The Doctor leant out from behind the umbrella to see that parts of the carpet were on fire, the curtains were burning fiercely and the armchairs were beginning to smoke and catch light. He looked to the door, as the young couple tried to gain entry and reach him. The flames drove them back. The flames were beginning to lick Lord Curruthers' collection of exotic stuffed animals. Whatever was used to preserve them was obviously highly flammable as some exploded with flame, burning high and fiercely like torches.

"I always said that taxidermy was a dangerous hobby." The Doctor pushed the end of his acid- and flame-proof umbrella into the carpet and sheltered behind it as he started to rummage through his pockets again. The temperature of the room was rapidly rising and it was becoming difficult to breath. He head the young couple stagger away to get help. Outside the shouts of 'fire' had started as the conflagration spread to the corridor. The Time Lord began muttering to himself while pulling items from his pockets, "Flux capacitor? No..." he threw the offending item to the flames, barely aware of the tinkling of shattering glass and smell of cooking electronics, "Dilithium crystal? No… what's this… a catapult?" He sighed. "Oh well, it's not like I have time to argue with my pockets, but when I do…" Then inspiration struck. He hefted the crystal and tested it for weight. He peeked around the umbrella canopy to the window. "Should be…"

He slipped the crystal into the sling and drew back on the catapult. With a single smooth movement, he stood and aimed at the window. He loosed the sling; the crystal launched into the air and struck the windows, destroying the already weakened frames and knocking the debris outwards. At this, the flames leaped higher, fed by the increased oxygen supply. The Doctor grabbed the opportunity and his umbrella and charged.

In the attic room across the street, the two figures watched, a feeling of guilt slowly crept over them as they witnessed what they had wrought. "Hope no-one's grandfather was trapped in there, Boaz." The speaker visibly paled at that as he set about dismantling the tripod and packing it away into a duffle.

"Wouldn't have thought a house could catch fire that quickly, Shura, I mean it was only the one room that was full of gas. You can almost understand the great fire of London ..." He then realised what he was saying and both of their complexions turned pasty as they both thought about the conclusions. "You don't think…"

"No!" The first denied almost too rapidly, then added with some thought, "No, wrong time period for that."

"Are you sure?"

"No. Let's see if Anat has had better luck."

They turned and, gathering their gear between them, scrabbled into a freestanding closet situated behind them. Outside, a smoking Doctor reached salvation. With a raucous, grating sound the closet faded to the consistency of smoke before evaporating.

The Doctor slumped against the wall, someone had just made an attempt on his life; he had no idea who it was either. He slid to the floor and started coughing due to smoke inhalation. By the time he had recovered himself sufficiently, he had been joined by Litefoot and Henri. Together they watched as the conflagration tore through the house while waiting for the fire brigade and police to arrive.

Shortly, a pair of fire brigade atmotic crafts was raining water onto the blaze. An ambulance had tended to the Doctor and the investigators. Soon the three were in a cab headed to Winton Road police station. The Doctor allowed himself to relax in the dark shady interior. "Right let us all take stock."

He pulled out a small black pouch from an inner pocket and withdrew a burnished silver slab barely three and a half inches wide, five inches long and less than a third of an inch thick. "What is that Doctor?"

"This?" He looked at a dark rectangle that comprised maybe forty percent of the one surface as it flared to life and tiny green text scrolled across the surface, "A data analysis and retrieval device – an advanced computer." He thumbed one of the controls on the surface and the glowing screen expanded before them, as large as the interior of the cab, as an insubstantial display – words floating in the interior of the vehicle.

Litefoot looked on with admiration, "A _highly _advanced computator!"

The Doctor smiled as, reaching into his inner coat pocket, he pulled out a stylus and began to write on the small slab to have the words writ large in the air in glowing neon.

"Right, let's apply our brains. In one corner we have the Iytean." He wrote the word Iytean and ringed it, "Then there's the patrol ship, which was, once, used by the Iytean Confederacy to bring in those who had broken their laws by forcibly taking an intelligent host. These two are probably linked." He drew a line between these two items, "We also have the two criminals Jenkins and Bannister, who for the moment seemed to have disappeared. I think it's safe to assume that they know where the patrol ship is. Hunting them, our mysterious man; this could be the host form of the Iytean. Circling around this group are Colonel Fraser, Lord Curruthers and Doctor Henry Jellico. No wait a moment we've just lost Curruthers." The Doctor took the stylus and scribbled out Curruthers' name. After a beat he scribbled out Fraser's too, "And I think that Colonel Fraser is too frail to survive the changes the Iytean can wrought on its host." He thought for a moment. "Then there is the attempt on our lives…"

For the past few minutes Henri had been watching the Doctor aghast. "We have just survived an attempt on our very lives and you are sitting here treating this as if it is one of those penny dreadfuls. People are dying here!"

The Doctor turned around, deeply hurt by what she had said. However the sunlight from outside the cab made his eyes cold and hard, the childlike innocence and joy hardened. "People are dying all over this planet every day Bernice. If it's not the Crimean war, it's the Boer Wars, if it's not a war then it's someone knifed for decent food and drinking water." He laughed coldly, "On the Earth I _know_; in a few short decades events will take place in Sarajevo that will plunge this world into two of the bloodiest wars in its history. They will bring about the death of a quarter-billion people and lead to the downfall of the British Empire. But it would not end there. Other empires will rise to take its place and they will do their level-best to stamp their marks on history and the world. They will be empires in everything but name and the blood and the slaughter will only continue. This world has very nearly drowned in blood on so many occasions." He breathed out slowly. "That may only happen on the Earth I know, but I cannot see how different the human mentality is on this world." Henri and Litefoot were shocked by this nightmare vision of this possible future of an alternate Earth from this dark prophet and tried to draw back from him. But it was as if a switch had been thrown and his eyes seemed to brighten, "But that doesn't concern us, does it?" He smiled, "Hmm?"

He tapped the partition of the car signalling the driver that he wanted to stop, "Miss Jago, Doctor Litefoot, see if you can find the location of Doctor Jellico from Miss Fraser. I'll meet you at Winton Road in about an hour; see what I can get about the Iyteans from the data banks. Bye." And with that he leaped from the cab and disappeared in to the crowd.

Henri looked stunned and paled, "What do you make of that?"

Litefoot shuddered, "I do not know. He made no reference of the Scottish Rebellion, and why would the Boer go to war with us? After all the Dutch are our allies in Africa."

Henri nodded sagely, "There is that, but who is 'Bernice'? For that matter what was that about 'the Earth I know'?"

Litefoot shook his head, "Obviously someone the good Doctor knows. As for the 'Earth' comment, I have little idea." He looks after the disappearing form of the odd little man, "Perhaps we should attend Miss Fraser…"

Henri took a deep breath, "Yes, why not. She _may_ be able to shed some light on this."

There was a rapping on the front door that just would not go away. With a sigh of resignation Carlshaw opened the door to Henri, "Good morning, is Miss Julia Fraser in? I believe she may have some important information for us."

"I see madam. If you care to come in I shall see if she is at home for visitors."

The door to the attic room burst open in a shower of splintered wood and the Doctor rolled into the room, catapult at the ready; quickly looking around the small room he confirmed that it was empty. He thought it would be but they had already made one attempt on his life. Putting the weapon away he crouched down and scuttled to the window. He paid close attention to the dust-covered floor. There were two of them, one of them seemed to be particularly agitated; the footsteps had done a lot of pacing. He crawled over to the window; taking out a pair of opera glasses he sighted them across the street. Observing Inspector Hawthorne and a couple of constables wondering around the burnt-out study, he smiled, "London's finest."

Putting away the glasses he noticed something glinting on the floor, he picked up the spent cartridge case of a .303 calibre service rifle. Waving it gently under his nose, it reeked of burnt cordite, "Hmm Recently fired."

Casting it aside, he pulled out his sonic screwdriver and began to scan the room. According to the instrument, the immediate area had been exposed to a neutrino and tachyon burst. A chroniton tail-off indicated there had been a Transmat event less than an hour ago. The readings suggested twenty-second century Earth as the likely origin point. "Is that the answer?" He asked himself, "Didn't think the Iyteans were trans-temporal and the Daleks are out of the picture… for now at least… But twenty-second century Earth was a Dalek prison camp for…" That was the trouble with such situations; it made no difference when a race broke the time barrier, someone could travel back-and-forth through the timelines negating such concepts as 'before' and 'after'. He remembered an exercise at the Academy on Gallifrey. A time capsule was sent back on automatic pilot to a time before it was invented. It was reverse-engineered by an earlier version of the scientists who would, in several decades time, send it back through time. The knowledge and the data gained during the dismantling created the basics of time mechanics to be understood and the creation of the time capsule. Who invented the capsule? It made his brain hurt even now. With one last look around to make sure there was nothing more to be learnt, the Doctor headed off.

_Winton Road Police Station_

When the Doctor arrived at the police station, he was greeted by Henri and escorted to Litefoot's laboratory and office as she headed down the steps, she looked to the Doctor, "If you do not mind me asking, what did you mean earlier when you said 'the Earth you knew'?"

"Ah," the Doctor clasped his hands at his chest, "It can be difficult to visualise," Henri opened the door to the laboratory and they walked though to meet Litefoot and Reeves-Latimer. "The current view of spacetime is one of eleven dimensions; spatial dimensions of length, width and height, the fourth dimension of time, the fifth dimension of the space-time vortex, dimensions of equilibrium and entropy up to the highest dimensions of imagination and possibility." Henri and the others just nodded, "For any space to remain finite but unbounded, as the universe is believed to be, it must possess at least one dimension beyond those that are generally discernible. Consider a two-dimensional piece of paper," the Doctor picked up a sheet of paper and twisted it into a cylinder, "In order to form a closed loop, the paper must pass through a third dimension." He waves a hand over the lopped paper. "A two-dimensional 'universe' effectively exists on the surface of the paper, but its theoretical inhabitants are unable to perceive this third dimension. A four-dimensional universe – three of space and one of linear time – must pass through two additional dimensions in order to form a finite but unbounded system." He looked to the humans who merely looked uncomprehending and perplexed. The Doctor continued unabated. "These additional dimensions can be considered the 'height' and 'width' of time, if you will."

Litefoot blinked, "If you say so Doctor."

"If we describe the whole of the three-dimensional universe of space as a single point, then the first dimension of time can be seen as a line, what is referred to as a 'timeline'. This extends 'forward' into the future and 'backward' into the past. Any given point along this line is a moment in time as it progresses but a timeline is not nearly as fixed or absolute as such a line. Adding a second line, running perpendicular to the first taken as the _X_-axis, gives time's 'height' or _Y_-axis. Adding a third, perpendicular to the first two, into and out of this board, gives us its 'width' or _Z_-axis. This creates a plane of time, intersecting with the timeline, which contains a potentially infinite probability field." He paused for a moment, "Of course, the timeline is not the only one. The three dimensions of time actually contain a potentially infinite number of timelines, all coexisting parallel to each other throughout the probability field." The Doctor looked to the three humans – all completely lost in the attempt at explanation.

He breathed out slowly and tried again, "All universes, all timelines, are parallel to this universe in six-dimensional continuum: three-dimensions of space and three-dimensions of time. The dimensions of space – height, width and depth – are consistent throughout. The linear notion of time – past-to-present-to-yet to come, can be considered one 'dimension' of time with other dimensions, comprising probability fields, as the 'height' and 'width' of time. In essence, these temporal dimensions encompass every possible past, present and future that _could _exist and does 'elsewhere' in the continuum. In these higher temporal dimensions lie a potentially infinite number of timelines running parallel to the familiar universe we inhabit. The degree of divergence between universes determine how 'far' away they are in temporal terms and how different that universe is from a given point." He looked about the laboratory and spied an easier item to use in analogy.

He picked up a single strand of copper wire that led to a twisted bundle. "If we take on timeline as this loose strand as the timeline, then the alternate timelines are these other wires. The continuum can be thought of as a bundle of copper wire – millions of timelines running parallel to each other in this helical-type pattern. Those strands or timelines 'closest' together tend to exhibit the greatest similarities; their events and histories do not differ greatly. Those lines farther apart, in terms of the _Y_ and _Z_ axes of time, show the greatest differences." He paused for a moment. "The Earth _I_ know has moonbases and a fully-fledged space programme in the 1980s, Britain has her own missions to Mars. But there is no evidence or history of all this steam-technology." He waved his hand, indicating the Science Museum, "But then I have been to the 1990s and 2000s. At that time, there is no knowledge of the moonbases and no spaceflight bar the occasional military shuttle with a handful of passengers. There are computers less advanced than this in their 1940s and it would be a further half-century before something with this functionality would develop." He closed his eyes with exhaustion.

Litefoot nodded with a sense of understanding. "So the Earth that 'nearly drowned in blood' could be on one of these other strands. There could be a world where Victoria reigns over an Empire without computators, atmotic craft, automata or æther – and the sciences thus related. It could be that England lost the War of Rebellion and the American colonies gained their independence. It _could _be that dinosaurs never became extinct and became the dominant species; it could be that the Roman Empire never fell – as in those populist serials – and went on to conquer the æther… In truth, the possibilities are endless."

"It could be." The Doctor nodded sagely, "And the possibilities are."

Henri smiled, "I am none the wiser, but I dare say I am better informed."

"You don't have to be a fish in a tank to know how a fish in the tank is feeling." The Doctor laughed at his own joke, alone. Suddenly self aware, he turned to matters of a business nature. "So what have you found out about the venerable Doctor Jellico?"

Reeves-Latimer pulled out a notebook, "Doctor Jellico lives in Cavendish Square, Tottenham. He is quite a knowledgeable gentleman; he has turned out a few papers on several topics before turning to hybridisation of species when he seems to have lost a great deal of respect. Until recently he had a practice in Tottenham but gave it all up to pursue pure research."

The Doctor started to tap his chin thoughtfully, "Hmm how long ago did he give up the practice?"

"Around two years. Yes I know!" She cut off any exclamation that the Doctor was about to make. "It seems that since he started the research he has become a real recluse. Not sure if it is important, but he also owns the house behind his, converted it into a laboratory-workshop. It opens out on to Wimpole Street but now they share the same garden. That is it, nothing else."

The Doctor clapped excitedly, "Shall we go and see Doctor Jellico?"

An hour later, the Doctor was scrabbling over the seven-foot high wall with only a few cursed mutterings. Detective Sergeant Reeves-Latimer was waiting below hissing at him to shut up and get a move on, wondering how she had been talked into such a nefarious act. After a few more minutes he found a loose brick, slipped and fell the rest of the way down. He picked himself up and brushed himself down in an attempt to preserve his dignity. Litefoot merely tried the catch on the gate, and, finding it unlocked, walked through with little effort. Stifling a grin, Henri followed at a crouch to the Wimpole Street end of the garden, she whispered, "According to word on the street this is were he spends most of his time now."

The Time Lord tried the door handle of the house and found it locked. He looked around and reached into an inner pocket pulling out his sonic screwdriver. He activated it and started to vibrate the lock open before ushering everyone inside. Reeves-Latimer drew a pistol checking the cylindrical ammunition drum and primed the acetylene charge before heading into the gloom.

The small kitchen was a mess of soiled and unwashed plates. The group went through into the house proper, except for a few support pillars the whole ground floor had been knocked through in to one large area. The place had been tiled throughout and had been outfitted as an almost industrial-scale chemistry laboratory with an abundance of glassware and piping with coloured liquid blubbering through it set on most benches. There was a commotion from upstairs and a white-haired, middle-aged man pounded down the stairs, wrapping a silk and velvet dressing gown around his body. His hair was in the disarray of the recently woken, with a slight layer of stubble growth on his chin even though it was almost afternoon.

"Who are you people? What the devil do you think you are doing?"

The Doctor span round a disarming grin plastered on his face, as Reeves-Latimer pointed her pistol at the new arrival, "The redoubtable Doctor Jellico I presume?"

"I know who _I_ am Madam, who the hell are you and what are you doing in my laboratory? I have no hesitation in calling for the police."

The Doctor quickly flashed his chrome badge, "Doctor Smith of the Yard!"

Reeves-Latimer holstered her pistol and withdrew her warrant card, holding it up so Jellico could read it. "I am Sergeant Reeves-Latimer of the Metropolitan Police. I am afraid we have to ask you a few questions."

A bubbling voice echoed in Jellico's mind as he focused on the Doctor, _"Do not trust this one he is not what he seems!"_ Jellico narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but he looked to Reeves-Latimer, "I am unsure, but I think you need some form of official documentation before you attempt a break-in, legal or otherwise."

Litefoot looked up, "I am here to tell you that Lord Curruthers is dead."

The effect of those words on Jellico was devastating, he paled and stumbled on the step then fell heavily, "Dead are you sure? But I thought..."

"You thought what?"

Jellico did not seem to notice that he was being questioned such was the measure of his despair. Henri leaned closer, "Is there anything we can do for you sir?"

In a small voice he said, "I… I never got to apologise, never got to say goodbye."

The Doctor pounced on the comment. "Apologise for what? Say goodbye to whom?"

Jellico instantly hardened. "That _is _none of your business. How did you find me?"

Reeves-Latimer tried a different approach; she smiled, "We've been talking to Colonel Fraser. It seems he has been buying artefacts from Jenkins and Banister. You do remember Jenkins and Bannister do you not?"

Jellico looked at the group blinking rapidly, "No!"

This only seemed only to confirm what the Doctor was already thinking, "No, really? Oh well my mistake."

Litefoot cleared his throat, attempting to calm the situation down and he waved a hand about the vast room, "What is all this equipment for, what are you attempting to do?"

For a few moments his attention was focused on the Time Lord and his eyes brightened momentary, "I am trying to sequence what chemical factors are involved in the mental imbalances associated with criminal and lunatic behaviour."

Litefoot looked on in amazement, "That is a lofty goal, phrenology and the modifiers have shown some benefits but…"

The Time Lord interrupted, infuriated at being sidelined, "Come along, we have occupied enough of the good Doctor's time. We will be in touch Doctor Jellico." With that he ushered everyone out of the room.

Outside, Reeves-Latimer turned on the Time Lord. "What the hell was the point of all that then?"

The Doctor smiled at the policewoman while gently pressing her nose, "Just kicking over the ant hill."

She flushed red and swatted his hand away, "What? 'Kicking over the ant hill'? I risked my career," she pointed at the investigators, "They risked their _lives_!" She shook her head, "For what? Just to satisfy some urge to misbehave?" She threw her hands in the air and turned away in anger. Henri stepped hurriedly after her.

Unaware of her annoyance, the Doctor turned to Litefoot, "So tell me more of this 'phrenology modification'."

Litefoot looked towards Reeves-Latimer and started to follow before answering, "The phrenological modifier is a tool for modifying the brain based on the idea that the shape of the head indicates what portions of the brain are most highly developed – and thus the personality of the individual. By compressing the skull in places and pulling on it in others, the phrenological modifier reduces the size of unwanted areas of the brain and allows other, more beneficial areas to expand. Well that's the theory."

Inside the house, Jellico was still sitting on the step in the laboratory muttering in a small voice, "They cannot and must not be allowed to interfere."

A firm strong, steady, bubbling voice boomed a crossed his mind, "_They will not be allowed to interfere_."

6. A Changed Man

Inside, Jellico sat on the stair, wallowing in despair wondering how it could have gone so wrong so quickly. The harmless experiments had escalated to death destruction and horror and now the police were interfering, disturbing the finely-balanced equilibrium.

"They cannot, must not interfere."

It was said almost as a prayer. A firm strong and steady voice bubbled a crossed his mind, "_They will not be allowed to interfere!_"

With a thrill of horror he felt The Change take him, his skin felt tight and itched as if there were a thousand ants just under its surface. The fingers grew long and distorted, coarse orange hair sprouted from the back of his hands. He felt his face grow twisted and deformed. His mind was being burnt from his body; the last conscious thing his mind recognised was the harsh voice bubbling from his thought.

"_We will now find Fraser and take the location of the patrol vessel from him_."

The small group picked up their car at the corner and headed back to Winton Road Police Station via Bishopgate. "What is worrying you, Miss Jago?"

Deciding that honesty was the best policy, she reached inside her clutch bag and pulled out a phial of green powder, "I managed to… acquire this Sergeant. I thought it might be important."

With undignified haste, The Doctor leant forward and snatched the phial from her hands. Tipping some of the contents onto his palm, he sniffed it with caution. The light caught it sending rainbow-like ripples over its surface. Dampening one finger he placed it on the powder and then his tongue, "One of the Janx group if I'm not mistaken." He looked at the three humans, "Which, you know, I'm not."

Litefoot was highly interested, "Oh really. What are its properties?"

"It is – or was – an anxiety suppressant. Since the Iytean homeworld burned," an involuntary shiver passed through the Time Lord, "it has been almost impossible to obtain. In large quantities it induces sleep but in very minuscule concentrations it weakens the will and determination and leaves the subject open to suggestions." A dream-like quality had slipped onto the Doctor's face and entered his voice, "But fortunately… I seem… to be… immune." Slowly, a wide and – as some might have said – inane smile split his face.

At this, Henri's eyes started to sparkle, for some reason she had felt the Doctor to be holding back information. In this less-than-lucid state, it was entirely possible they could obtain some of that information. She lent forward. "So what is really going on?"

"You mean you still don't know yet child?" He smiled and looked at the young woman, "The human brain is really a remarkable organ it's just a shame so few of you use it. Two thousand years before the birth of the Nazarene, the Iytean police caught one of their criminals. He… he was charged with possessing an intelligent host against its will. You see, they would usually posses things like their versions of cows and horses," The Doctor nearly giggled, "and induce a temporary change in the creature so it would be of more use to them." He wavered slightly as though drunk, "Something… something happened to the patrol ship and it landed here. The crew abandoned it probably with every intention or returning but got wiped out with the rest of their race by the Sontarans. Years passed, London is built and then along comes your pair of petty thieves who had stumbled across the still-active patrol ship. They must have accidentally released one of the prisoners, who seized one of them. It probably induced a fit and the victim was rushed to the nearest doctors; Jellico. The Iytean slowly and gently switched hoists. Since then it's been trying to influence him, affect what his been doing." The Doctor leaned forward slightly woozily, his eyes defocusing, "It has to be stopped. It probably wants to take over the world, they usually do."

The car slowed to a halt. The door was opened and the Doctor took a deep breath, the glazed look slipped from his eyes and animation returned to his face. He leapt from the vehicle, the others scrabbling to follow him. He charged toward his TARDIS to begin a proper analysis of the green powdery substance.

The Doctor led the small group into the TARDIS, leaving them alone in the twilight-lit console room. The trio milled around only for a moment before the Doctor returned with a white box set on a dented, silvery-metal wheeled trolley. "That looks rather like one of those steward's trolleys from a train or atmotic ship."

Henri nudged Reeves-Latimer, "Ever the policewoman?"

The Detective Sergeant smiled, "Quite Henri. It is just I have never seen one made of such a material," she made to touch it; "They are usually wooden or iron and brass."

"This is aluminium." The Doctor stated as he adjusted the piece of electronic machinery resting on top of the trolley.

Reeves-Latimer looked shocked, "Aluminum? But that is expensive… for such an amount…"

The Doctor raised his eyes for a brief second almost as though confronted by a slow student, "Ah in this time that is probably still true." He continued to adjust the device; it still refused to respond, "A little percussive maintenance perhaps?" He hit it; still no response. He hit it again, harder, with the same lack of function. Then he noticed something and bent to pick up a loose cable. "Ah." He plugged the cable end into a socket on the console. Small lights began to twinkle on the unit and the Doctor pulled out a small tray at the base of the box. On this tray he tipped a tiny amount of the green powder. The tray slid closed with a slight and soft whir.

"While we wait for the analysis…" The Doctor looked to the three humans, "Who is up for a cuppa?"

"Before that Doctor," Henri raised a hand, "Perhaps you could give explanation as to why you think the Earth is going to expire?"

"Simple Miss Jago. Simple." The Doctor twisted around and activated the scanner screen to show the humans what he had witnessed barely a relative day ago. After watching the footage, the three were silent and grey. A three letter code flashed on the screen 'ISA'. The Doctor looked puzzled and tapped in a code on the console pulling up library files. The colour drained from his face and he spoke in a quiet voice, "Apparently this matches something in the records of Gallifrey…" He trailed off and manipulated controls on the console.

As the console room darkened slightly, what appeared to be a three-dimensional image resolved itself on the scanner screen. It showed a static image of a six planet system around a glowing yellow-orange sun. "This is what happened last time something Iytean was tampered with. Every star has a finite lifespan – after so many billions of years, they simply burn out their fuel and implode and collapse. But some go beyond _that_ super-compacting level – past that point-of-no-return and become a singularity – a collapsar." he spots the blank looks on the faces of the humans, "A singularity is a gravitational maelstrom so powerful, so strong that nothing, not even light itself, can escape. That kind of stellar collapse takes a long time to come about. Most species would have either evolved far enough along to leave their planet behind before this could ever happen to them, or else they would have been exterminated in one of their star's earlier expansion phases. But this – the security device on an Iytean _Police Ship_ – makes a sun go black in _minutes_!"

The Doctor tapped a command into the console and the planets began to orbit the star simulation. "Using a merging of cosmology, temporal physics and matter-transfer energy, the Iytean security device, essentially a collapsar bomb – is transmatted into the middle of the star closest to the stricken vessel and it generates a fast-time field. Everything inside that radius experiences the passage of time at a vastly accelerated rate – a trillion years in a nanosecond – it eats the heart out of the sun, turning it rotten inside, instant stellar collapse."

The group watched as the simulation of the star changed to a redder colour and started to shake, flares erupted all over its surface, turning it into a furious churn of energy; the colour of the star shifted further, darkening as its spectrum was ripped apart. The star flickered and contracted. Then came the flash; the murdered sun pulsed brilliant white, the image threw stark, hard-edged shadows across the walls of the console room.

Even before their vision returned, the Doctor continued, "X-rays, trillions of Röentgens, flash-fry _everything_." Litefoot and Henri shared a questioning look at the odd units, but the Doctor continued unabated. "Every habitable world is burnt to a cinder; the radiations turn the atmospheres into plasmas – planet-sized firestorms."

Now the star began a final, inexorable spiral toward implosion, the wreckage of the sun and the halo of stellar material crowded and drew back inwards, retreating back toward its parent. The single point of light grew darker and darker, the orbits of the devastated worlds twisted as gravity grew stronger. The shattered planets circled inwardly, falling towards a second death.

There was a final, brief eruption of colour and the star was gone; in its place, a fractured ball of blackness surrounded by a disc of dead matter.

"That…" The Time Lord cleared his throat, "That was no 'simulation', that was a _record_ of use of the device. The Iyteans destroyed two inhabited worlds – both with pre-industrial cultures on them – 817 _billion_ sentients wiped out in a single 'simple' malfunction!"

After a brief pause, Reeves-Latimer coughed slightly, "Why is that," she pointed to the now-static image of a star system ripped apart, "not quite a match for what you showed us before from you little device?"

The Doctor laughed, "Discrepancy in evidence rather than motive? Typical." He shrugged, "I don't know." He tapped at the console, "It is possible, after four thousand years of sitting idle under increasing accretions of material, that the system fired but malfunctioned and the Sun did not collapse as it should." He took a breath. "The only method by which the device would fire now is if the ship were tampered with…"

"We need to track down Bannister and Jenkins?"

_Winton Road Police Station_

In Litefoot's laboratory, the computator was warming up with heating valves, cooking ozone and grinding gears. "This is taking too long." The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and thumbed a switch. He pointed the device at the computator and it emitted a squeal of ultrasound. He tapped the screwdriver on the desk and attempted again with the same result. "This usually works on electronics…"

"This is not an 'electronic' computator." Litefoot indicated the base unit. "This is mechanical – gears and valves."

"Oh." Then realisation set in, "Oh." He moved away to allow Litefoot to manipulate the computator keyboard. Looking about the laboratory, he spied a familiar looking device. A chipped, ebonised-black version of his screwdriver, complete with a twist of silver Gallifreyan script that could be construed as decoration to the uninitiated. "Mortimus," He whispered, "Of course." He made to retrieve it, but Litefoot picked it up and started absent-mindedly fiddling with it.

"Here we are." Litefoot tapped at the computator keyboard. "Last known address of Jack Bannister…"

A tap at the door stopped the query. "Sergeant Higgins. What can we do to help you?"

"Well Miss Jago," the police officer smiled, "It is actually Doctor Litefoot I need in his capacity as police doctor. A suspect has been taken into custody and we need an assessment of his medical condition."

"Oh," Litefoot moved to collect his Gladstone bag, "What is his history?"

"Bannister is… known to us. He tried to stab his common-law wife, she fought back and…" Higgins smiled, "Well he came off worst."

Reeves-Latimer stood, "Well, that's convenient."

The cell door was opened; inside lying on the bed was one Bannister, his hair unkempt and face scratched, shirt bloody. "Mister Bannister?"

His jaw set and his eyes flickered with the possibility of an opportunity. "Yes."

"Sergeant Reeves-Latimer, Doctor Litefoot here will perform an examination of you to see if you are fit to be questioned. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Litefoot placed his Gladstone bag on the bedding and opened it. He withdrew a dark brown, glass bottle of disinfectant alcohol. When his attention was diverted looking for bandage, Bannister's eyes flicked to the bottle as he bided his time.

In a swift motion, Bannister leapt up, grabbed the bottle by its neck in his right hand and smashed the body against the wall. He grabbed Henri around her chest and held the fractured end of the bottle against her face. "If y' don't want your dolly here to end with face like mine, back up, now."

Henri's eyes widened in terror and she started to shake with fear. Litefoot felt a rage rise within him, but he felt powerless to act. Reeves-Latimer tilted forward to wrest the bottle from the criminal, but Litefoot held her back, now fearful of endangering his friend. "You will _not_ get far."

Bannister smiled coldly as he pressed the glass against Henri's alabaster skin causing it to turn even paler, "Far enough to get out of here copper!" Using Henri as a shield, the criminal walked his way out of the police station and into the city before disappearing.

Reeves-Latimer placed a hand on Litefoot's arm, "We will find her Doctor, _before_ he does anything to her."

7. Underworld

_Fraser Residence, Camberwell_

Julia stood at the cellar door listening intently to the conversation that was going on down below her. She could hear Grandfather trying to convince that ruffian Bannister into some sort of deal. She could hear him now talking animatedly with Bannister, who only seamed to half-heartedly or hesitantly reply.

"Are you sure you were not followed?"

"Nah, I told you I took me a hostage, made a clean getaway."

Grandfather spluttered, "A hostage?" He sounded almost apoplectic. "You… you did not bring them here?"

"What d' you take me for? No she's safe in Battersea, the _usual _place." Julia could hear the smirk in his voice. Grandfather cleared his throat.

"I hope for your sake that is accurate." There was a pause. "Very well, just think of it man, we could turn back the tide of apathy and decay that has swept over our great nation. Through proper use of these artefacts we could stamp down the Frogs and show those damn Zulus a thing or two about military manoeuvres. We can enforce a military superiority that Nelson and Wellington could only have dreamt about."

There was a pause for a few moments as Bannister considered his words. "And what would _I_ gain out of this risky venture?"

Fraser sounded irritated by this turn of questioning, "The knowledge that you have helped complete God's design in making a world united under the glorious banner of the Union Flag." Fraser's voice swelled as he became caught up in the vision he was trying to promote.

Bannister scoffed, "That doesn't put food on the table or put a roof over my head!"

Fraser readjusted his approach, "Ah, a businessman to the last, eh Bannister? For myself, a world unified under the Union flag would be enough but you? I am sure you would be able to ask a grateful Queen and country for anything you want. A dukedom with its annual income could be the least thing you could ask for." Julia heard her Grandfather pause once more, "But I see you need more."

That was as much as she heard as she heard Carlshaw heading down the hallway. Julia pressed herself into the alcove, hiding herself as the family retainer opened the cellar door and entered. Julia resolved to notify the police and headed towards where she knew a constable was standing. He could get a message to the proper people far easier than she could.

_Winton Road Police Station_

Litefoot sat in his laboratory-office as Reeves-Latimer paced. "It has been half-an-hour; you would have thought there would be _some_ news by now."

"Patience Doctor."

"Is a virtue best found in others." Litefoot looked at Reeves-Latimer, "I needlessly and recklessly endangered Miss Jago. If anything has happened to her…" Litefoot trailed off.

Reeves-Latimer sighed softly, "I am sure that Miss Jago will be found safe-and-well." Despite her attempts at reassurance, neither felt particularly confident of their contents. Their somewhat melancholy contemplations were cut short by a metallic rapping at the door.

Reeves-Latimer opened the door to a uniformed sergeant, "Sergeant Higgins, is there news?"

Higgins looked slightly uneasy, "Not exactly Megan, Miss Julia Fraser has sent a short letter by messenger saying Bannister has appeared and is holding Miss Jago prisoner in Battersea." He held the opened message in his metal right hand.

Litefoot blinked in confusion, "Battersea?"

Reeves-Latimer turned, "Bannister has a warehouse in Battersea, but we have never been able to find evidence of nefarious actions." Higgins handed the note to the Detective-Sergeant, "Thank you." She smiled at Higgins, who smiled in return and left.

Reeves-Latimer raised an eyebrow, "To Battersea then?" Litefoot nodded slowly as she sighed, "I shall be most glad when Inspector Hawthorne returns with some of the lads." She thought for a moment, "I shall see you in the yard." With that she left Litefoot in his laboratory.

Litefoot scan-read the letter, "Oh Henrietta…"

_Battersea_

Litefoot clambered stiffly out of the steam car, leaving his cane behind. He looked across a cement-paved and derelict courtyard before staring up at the looming two-storey brick building. Even if he had not seen the huge smokestacks towering above the gabled roof, he would have recognised the location – the Millar Street Power Station, on the shore of Chelsea Reach. The obsolete power station had been decommissioned ten, fifteen years ago, when the newer and cleaner phlogiston-powered Hennessey Station came online across the river. The older structure had been scheduled for demolition, that was six years ago now.

The details of the building stood out in sharp relief. The red-brown edifice was wrapped all around with two rows of windows. The upper windows were huge – twenty feet tall and arched, with red terracotta and corbelled cornices. Of the smaller windows below, squarer and built to a more human scale, many had been broken.

Litefoot's attentions on the structure were distracted by the sharp closure of the car's locker. He turned to see Reeves-Latimer slinging a dull mahogany and blue-gunmetal rifle over her shoulder. "I am quite certain _that_ would be unnecessary Sergeant."

Reeves-Latimer primed the integral pump, adding water from the canister in the stock to the powdered calcium carbide flask above the trigger, before looking levelly at the doctor, "Have you forgotten that Bannister threatened to slash Miss Jago's throat?"

Litefoot felt his face tighten in annoyance, and redden at the fact he had failed to protect his friend. While he was in the Royal Army Medical Corps, there were very few people he would have stood into danger for. Yet now, he would – he thought – gladly sacrifice himself for the sake of Henri. Part of him had to admit, though, that Henri would be better as a hostage than he would be. At that, he felt ashamed and embarrassed at having such thoughts. "No. But what if Miss Jago is caught in the firing line?"

"I have _had_ training." Reeves-Latimer twisted the rifle in her hand and slammed a loaded magazine into the slot ahead of the trigger guard.

Litefoot sighed, "So did the lads in Newcastle."

Reeves-Latimer just breathed out heavily and turned the small wheel above the trigger to release the acetylene from the stock chamber into the firing chamber. She moved towards the front entrance – the double doors, capped by a decorative gable and more of the fading terracotta trim, were wide open; at once both inviting and foreboding. The policewoman took a few steps before stopping and turning to Litefoot, "The sooner we get going, the sooner we find Miss Jago."

The interior was a vast, dramatic, open space, rising like the knave of a church, past the cracked and grimy windows to a row of massive skylights that lined the roof gable. This _had_ been a cathedral to progress, and through its boilers and turbines had been taken for scrap long ago, it still held a strange and terrible beauty.

A rusted metal catwalk stretched the length of the space. Rain had come in through broken windows and skylights, and puddles and pools reflected the ambient light that shone through the windows. The building reverberated with small sounds and noises made layer by the vastness of the space; clicks, clangs, drips and creaks mingled with the cooing of roosting pigeons.

Needing to be sure of their footing in the derelict building – they did not want to fall through a hole into the level below – Reeves-Latimer switched on a small electric torch. There on the slate floor were dusty footprints. Litefoot picked up his speed to match that of the policewoman, following the trail past the pits where the huge boilers had once heated and the great turbines had once spun, manufacturing the electricity that had run this part of London. Pipes jutted from the floor at odd angles. The trail weaved around them and led down rusted steps, then out a small door in the back.

This was the blackened area where coal, the energy source for the plant, had been stored in titanic bunkers. Ships and barges had once delivered a seemingly endless stream of coal via the river to London's "Little Coaltown". Coal heated the boilers that turned the turbines that generated electricity. And river water cooled its machinery and was the source of the steam that was the plant's by-product.

In the middle of a cement lot, pitted with broken slabs and stagnant puddles, the trail disappeared into another manhole, Reeves-Latimer and Litefoot pulled it open – the entrance to a sewer. Not that such a revelation was surprising. With a brief survey of the area the policewoman dropped into the open hole followed shortly by the doctor, climbing down the ladder set into the wall with greater care. Once down, Reeves-Latimer swept the floor with her torch, and Litefoot spotted a series of scuffs in the damp dust – a set of striding footprints coupled with those of someone being dragged along against her will. Litefoot moved to follow the marks.

As they walked, following the trail, the whitewashed brick of the outer area gave way to a corridor where the brickwork had once been overlaid with plaster. Now the walls were scabrous, crumbling and covered with mould. Once white tiles adorned places in a haphazard fashion where the greening gout had collapsed. Litefoot saw Reeves-Latimer suppress a slight shudder as a foul stench washed over them from an open drain ahead.

Litefoot landed in brackish water up to his knees as his companion stifled a laugh. The water's surface was slicked with oil and other run-off from the streets above. He looked around. Slick slime covered the brick beneath the calf-deep water – a noxious mixture of sediment, mould and decaying matter. He would definitely have to watch his step. He smiled grimly, thankful for the imperviousness of his thick-soled, water-proofed boots. Unfortunately, his trousers were not so guarded and the liquid seeped into the fabric. Quite how he had slipped into the channel was a mystery, but a brighter patch on the lip of the footway showed it had crumbled slightly and he had merely lost his footing. With a little help, he climbed back onto the ledge and the pair continued their quest.

The vintage sewer pipes in this part of Battersea were brick and mortar, installed during the early 1850s during a building boom when the power station above was also under construction, here and there, patches of cement showed against the curved brick wall, places where maintenance workers had mended leaks and cracks, but, for the most part the sewers were holding up well through the last half-century.

London's sewer system was both an engineering marvel and a work-in-progress. It consisted of nearly six thousand miles of mains and pipes, the shapes, materials and sizes which varied widely. Currently, though, the diameter of the tunnel was sufficient to allow Litefoot and Reeves-Latimer to stand upright.

In the near pitch black, Reeves-Latimer felt her other senses sharpen. The susurration of moving water echoed softly around her in the endless tunnels barely louder than the swishing of her skirt. The smells – damp brick, saline water, decay – seemed more intense. It was another world down there. Litefoot gasped, "Your rifle uses an electric spark to fire the round does it not?"

Reeves-Latimer paused, unsure as to where his questioning was headed and quoted from the instructional briefing; "A hammer strikes a quartz crystal to produce a spark igniting the acetylene; yes."

Litefoot sniffed and grimaced, "Smell that?" Reeves-Latimer nodded, "Methane, highly flammable. If you fire that weapon in this," He waved a hand at the tunnel, "enclosed area, it could ignite everything." The policewoman looked at the doctor for a moment before ensuring the safety catch was on the rifle.

Eventually, they reached a point where the wide brick main split into two narrower tunnels, one an arched brick construct and the other a round cement pipe. The trail crossed the small bridge over the waterway and turned left into the lower, narrower brick tunnel that seemed to lead slightly uphill. Reeves-Latimer led the way as the both walked in a slight stoop owing to the reduced headroom. Litefoot struggled as he felt his old war wound tightening his right leg.

Ahead, Reeves-Latimer quenched the torch and stopped. They waited in the darkness, holding their respective breaths. Was that the sound of someone coming up behind them?

Then the sound died, Litefoot realised that they had heard an echo of their own footsteps, not that of an approaching stranger. They continued on, trudging forward. The near enveloping darkness had become their world. Litefoot barely noticed the smells now, of damp, mould and decay. The drips, slops and trickles of sluggishly moving water became his new reality. Along with the sound of their footfalls they sounded rhythmic, lulling. But at least the floor was now dry and levelling as they walked upwards.

They turned a corner to find an abrupt ending to the tunnel, opening out some feet above the floor of a large circular chamber – once a holding tank; they had walked up what had been an overflow pipe – outfitted as a cell. There in the centre, between the rusting equipment piled against one side, the pipes continuing upwards past metal girders and horizontal pipes up through the ceiling was Henri. Litefoot scrambled down and crossed swiftly to his friend leaving Reeves-Latimer to climb down behind. The criminals had tied Henri up, by her wrists, to an overhead pipe. She had been gagged and blindfolded with strips of cloth torn from her own jacket. Litefoot could see that tears had stained the blindfold. He spoke softly to reassure her as he removed her gag and blindfold. Henri blinked in the relatively brightness.

As he removed her wrist restraints, Henri threw her arms around him, "Thank you for coming for me."

Reeves-Latimer coughed, "We have to get out of here." She led the way towards a metal door slightly ajar. She bought her rifle down and disengaged the safety catch as she leant against it, peering through the crack and slowly opened it. Henri and Litefoot stood back, the doctor supporting his sore and exhausted friend. The door swung on freshly oiled hinges. Somehow that did little to reassure given the state of the rest of the lair. The corridor outside was dark; Reeves-Latimer turned her torch back on and swept the expanse beyond. Suddenly she knew where they were. The trek through the tunnels, though it had taken the better part of half-an-hour, had not been prolonged in distance. They had reached the lowest-level platform of the Battersea Road underground station.

The three-level station had been built as part of the London Underground rail network on what was being heralded as the Empire Line. Levels one and two had carried passengers clockwise and anticlockwise for more than five years. No one knew why the third level, a single platform with clockwise trains on one side and anticlockwise on the other, had been built. In the circumstances, it was never completely finished and eventually was only used for a few months four years ago, then, again for reasons unknown, abandoned. But it afforded access to the surface, far more convenient than traversing the sewers once again. The three headed along the dark platform and to the grating at the base of the stairwell.

As Reeves-Latimer set about picking the padlock, Henri turned to Litefoot, "Please do not think I am ungrateful, but who is running your practice whilst you are running under London looking for me?"

"You remember Doctor Windburn?"

Henri raised an eyebrow, "Your university friend?"

"Yes, that's her."

"Oh… do your patients object to be treated by a woman?"

"Not the majority. If they are truly ill, then it should not matter whether I treat them or Elizabeth. Besides," he smiles slightly, "She _is_ the better general practioner."

"Have they not complained about 'the breach of tradition'?"

"As someone once said, 'tis better to light a single candle than fear and curse against the darkness'. Without more women in the medical profession," he nods to Reeves-Latimer still struggling with the lock, "or police, there can be very limited – if any – progress. Besides, it looks as though police work and our investigations – if they become a regular occurrence – are going to take up much of my time." He paused, "Are you trying to tell me you would rather not have me here?"

Henri teased with her tinkling laugh, "Of course not Eddie." She smiled at her friend and squeezed him, "I just do not wish you to lose your practice."

At that moment, Reeves-Latimer managed to crack the lock and dragged the grating open. She looked to the pair of civilians, "Only a couple-hundred steps up. Let's get cracking." Without further ado, she started to climb to the populated levels of the station.

_Fraser Residence, Camberwell_

A sudden commotion from the front of the house distracted her from hearing any more of the altercation down stairs. It had been going for an hour now – fifty minutes since she had sent word to the police. "Perhaps that is them now." She said to no one in particular. As she reached the front door, the Doctor was busy pushing his way past the red-faced Carlshaw.

"I am sorry 'sir', but Colonel Fraser is not at home to visitors." The butler attempted to close the door but found it was like trying to close the door on a rock.

"I'm not a 'visitor'; that implies that I want to be here. Believe me there are over a million other places I would rather be." And with a shove belying his size, he pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Carlshaw tried one last time. "You are not welcome here sir. Leave now or I will be forced to call the police!"

"I am the police!" Sergeant Reeves-Latimer emerged, flashing her warrant badge and still carrying the assault rifle. "If you continue to impede our enquiries, then I shall have no option but to arrest you."

Julia ran up to quieten the escalating argument. "It is all right Carlshaw; they are here to see me. Please come through, Sergeant Reeves, Doctors." She saw Henri become apparent behind the men, "And Miss Jago; it is very agreeable to see that you are unharmed."

Carlshaw looked troubled but stepped back from the confrontation. "I see Miss, but I must say this is most irregular. I have received no notification of an appointment."

The Doctor rushed to the top of the door of the cellar, wrenched the door open and started to pound down the steps. Fraser looked up shocked, "What the devil is going on up there?"

"Hello again Colonel Fraser, this must be the nefarious Mister Bannister." In a pleasant manner, the Doctor walked up and patted the criminal warmly on the back. "However I'm sure that whatever grubby little plan you are cooking up it will fail. I simply won't allow it."

Bannister backed away, not liking the way this was going. Fraser, however, reacted with what he saw as righteous fury, "Just who do you think are you sir? Get out of here before I send for the constabulary!"

"The constabulary are upstairs," The Doctor half-turned and pointed up the stairs and clasped his hands in front of his chest. For a moment, Fraser was struck by the image of the Time Lord as an innocent – a child or a clown instead of the more assertive individual he had portrayed himself as on their past encounter. "In fact, I do believe Sergeant Reeves-Latimer is on her way down here." Indeed the intrepid policewoman was headed down the stairs followed by the Litefoot, Henri and Julia.

"You go ahead with this and you will end up ripping this planet apart." Fraser was red-faced now the anger rolling out of him in waves, "You are not English are you?"

"No," The Doctor shook his head, "But thank you."

"Thought not; no countryman would just toss aside such a chance to do so much good for his country. Just who are your paymasters, hmm? Is it the French?"

"Listen to me; you don't have time for this!"

Julia looked to her grandfather as from upstairs came the explosive sound of ripping wood. All conversation stopped. There was silence for a few moments then came Carlshaw's exclamation of horror and pain that was cut all too short. There came a roar from above, and the sound of shredding furniture. There came a harsh gargling roar, "Fraser! Fraser! I know you are there. I can smell you!"

The group turned round, Reeves-Latimer started to go up the cellar steps her rifle in her hands, when the door disappeared, ripped of its hinges and thrown clear. The thing that Jellico had become stood in the door way framed in the light. He had a bestial face, framed under a mane of reddish brown hair; his face had a broad flat nose; wild, intelligent eyes shone out from underneath a heavy brow ridge. His long muscular arms gave a sense of deformity where none really existed. He was dressed in a tattered set of gentleman's clothes the wrong size for him and in one hand he clutched one of the neural stunners looted from a drawer in the study above. He padded menacingly down the stairs. The Doctor looked up at him, eyes shining with curiosity and a hint of fear.

Reeves-Latimer raised her rifle. "Just what in God's name is _that_?"

"At last," the Doctor clapped his hands excitedly, "I take it that's Doctor Jellico 'Hyde'ing in there"

The thing that was Jellico took great affront at that, "I am so much more than that ape. Which of you is Fraser? Where are Bannister and Jenkins?"

With misplaced confidence and a flash of youthful vigour long thought spent, Fraser stepped forward, "I am Colonel Fraser; that gentleman there is Bannister. What do you want you foul cur?"

The Iytean Hybrid razed the stunner threateningly, "The location of the patrol vessel. Give it to me now!"

Fraser could not help but smile despite the threat, "That weapon has never worked. The energies that power it have long been depleted."

Litefoot lunged forward to knock the weapon from the Hybrid with a stick he had picked up in the cellar, but the hybrid smacked the doctor across his face, knocking him to the floor nearly insensate. To Henri, the next few moments seemed to blur into one as the Hybrid pulled the stunner round with amazing speed and fired at Reeves-Latimer. The policewoman barely squeaked as she sank to the ground as the energy from the gun overloaded her nervous system. Fraser tottered crossed the room to grab one of the rifle-like weapons, only to be shot down by the speed of the hybrid's actions. With a scream Julia ran to her grandfather's side.

At the same time Henri suddenly became aware she was launching herself at the hybrid. With a vicious grab, it caught her by the neck, and held her off the ground leaving her dangling legs kicking. At the same time the Doctor pulled his catapult and sighted it on the hybrid, but dropped it in favour of snatching up one of the Iytean rifles. Henri was in the line of fire. The Doctor thought for a moment – it was a terrible waste of life and he was still traumatised by the sacrifice of Bernice and that had been her choice. Now he was likely to end the life of a young woman by his own hand but greater things were at stake here. He went to press the activator.

Suddenly he was elsewhere, lost in the tortured paths of his memories.

He could hear Bernice choking the tears and pain, trying not to break, then the gasps, pleading for the pain to stop, knowing he was utterly useless, utterly helpless to aid his friend. Bernice was starting to cry now and he could feel the tears well in his own eyes. Her voice wavered "Kiss me?" He had not hesitated, and gave his friend a kiss on the forehead. Bernice smiled through the pain wracking her body, "Thank you…" she started coughing up blood. Bernice began pleading for her life, pleading not to die, as though he had the power over her life and death. The Doctor felt at that moment, he would give anything to change places with her. He saw the brightness dim and extinguish in her eyes as he felt the life leave her body. He wept.

The Doctor was frozen; his muscles locked. The Hybrid shot him down. Still holding Henri by the neck he took a moment to indulge in lustful appreciation of her form. Once he had the patrol ship he could synthesise more of the Janx powder, with it he could control this body permanently, then he could concentrate on budding and he and his progeny would rule the planet. Then there would be ample time to indulge in this body's baser pleasures. He threw Henri to one side. Hitting the wall, she slid to the floor stunned.

The Doctor was sitting on a hillside; his former incarnation was sat to his left. His earlier self was similarly dressed in a black frock-coat, wing-collared white shirt with a black ribbon tie in place of his bow tie, cream and brown checked trousers and matching waistcoat. While he had currently divested himself of the waistcoat, his former self managed to look more suited the attire – smarter somehow. The penetrating blue eyes and long, swept-back white hair belied an eccentric but highly intelligent mind. He felt a clown by comparison.

His previous incarnation was tetchy and temperamental; one moment he could be warm and friendly, the next accusatory of anyone and everyone. He could be vain, arrogant and determined to get his own way, no matter what arguments were raised against him. As far as he had been concerned, he knew best and everyone had better do it his way. Whilst he had to a certain extent adjusted this attitude, he found himself wondering if others still saw such qualities in him.

He was pontificating about something; he always did. When he displayed his stubbornness, his former incarnation became an alarmingly aggressive figure – something that could not have been said about his current form, but what of his future? The Doctor smiled as he vaguely remembered when he lost an argument, he became ruffled and unsettled – though that was still true and now mixed with a tinge of self-doubt and feeling or failure.

At the same time, his strong mind and ability to think quickly made him an inspiring leader who could restore courage to frightened companions or direct people who were lost in indecision – another trait he felt he had lost in the regeneration. There came upon him a vague sense of concern that the next regeneration might bring about the inability to pronounce the letter 'Q' or if he tried haddock, his teeth would start to swell. He had an odd feeling of the colour blue smelling of Swiss cheese. Yet he _had _retained a charm to gain the favour of powerful leaders merely by being present, but he had lost – or at least suppressed – the devious, scheming trait whereby he could easily manipulate events over millennial timescales. He did not feel quite so bad about that last one.

His former self was angry about something, not quite shouting but emphasising everything he was saying by poking the Doctor in the ribs with his cane. Just because he came first did that give him reason to invade his personal space? It did not! Besides, he was the older incarnation.

The horizon was a line of trees; a burning forest and flames leapt higher into a leaden, doom-laden sky.

The other was talking again but it was difficult to hear what he was saying due to the fact that Queen Aralan was screaming. She stood there arm pointing at him, hair and clothes burning, skin melting. In the distance, someone best described as a dandy puffed his way up the hill as his former incarnation poked the incumbent incarnation harder. That was it!

The Doctor sat bolt upright, "Look will you _please_ stop doing that?"

Then he became aware of where he was. Over in the corner Julia was sobbing over the crumpled form of Colonel Fraser. Miss Jago and Doctor Litefoot seemed to be tending to one another. He thought they made a handsome couple – much like Ian and Barbara or Ben and Polly. The Doctor started rubbing his forehead trying to remove a pulsing headache. Reeves-Latimer studied her rifle to find the Iytean energies had fused the primer pump and cracked the quartz crystal. Until it could be repaired, it was only useful as a club.

Suddenly aware something was missing; he pulled out his sonic screwdriver and started scanning the room.

Henri looked over at the trilling noise, "What are you looking for?"

A puzzled frown was creeping over the Doctor's features that broke into a smile when the device started bleeping. "I slapped a Beryllium patch onto Jellico's back. I can now track him anywhere. Come along, the game's gone into extra time!" He paused, "What of Colonel Fraser?" He crossed over the room to kneel by the prone form of the former military man, after a brief examination, he shook his head. "I didn't think anyone that old could have survived a neural blast. Still time is of the essence we must be away."

The Time Lord headed off up the stairs shouting, "We must destroy the Atlantean artefacts." Reeves-Latimer helped a tearful Julia to her feet as Henri aided Litefoot to the foot of the stairs and the four followed the Doctor. When they reached the hallway, they found the Doctor standing by what remained of the front door looking pointedly at his watch, and away from the smears of red on the tiled floor. He ushered the others through. "What happened to Mister Bannister?"

"Jellico snatched him – ran off carrying Bannister as though he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes."

Outside, across the street, was a crumpled form of a young woman. The way she held her wrist it was obviously broken. A crowd of people was starting to gather around her and in the distance was the shrill sound of a policeman's whistle. Litefoot pushed his way determinedly into the crowd followed by Henri. The Doctor called after them. "Look, we don't have time for this. We have to deal with the cause not the symptoms."

Henri just shot him a look, as Litefoot turned to one of the men who seemed to have taken charge of the crowd, "The one who did this also attacked Colonel Fraser in his residence over there. Tell the police, will you?" The man nodded, "Tell them Doctor Litefoot of Winton Road Station told you." The man nodded again. "Good man." With that the two investigators turned and followed after the Doctor.

The group left Portman Square on foot. On the other side of the street was another downed figure – this time a police constable. His head had been staved in with a manhole cover, blood and gore had spurted out onto the pavement. The Doctor stood at the gaping cavity of the manhole, checking the readings on his CIA-supplied reader. His nose twitched.

"Oh dear, sewers, I hate sewers – bad experiences." The others looked at him blankly. "Never mind, enough chitter chatter. Come on!" He marshalled the others towards the opening much the way a governess marshalled her young charges on a day out somewhere educational that they would rather not be. He proceeded down the ladder into the gloom beyond. With a resigned look, Reeves-Latimer went down, followed by Henri and Julia with Litefoot bringing up the rear. The Time Lord strolled confidently into the malodorous darkness, lighting the way with his multi-functional device. "At least we shouldn't run into any Cybermen this time eh Jamie?" The others looked at one another as the Doctor continued to walk down the tunnel.

Suddenly a flash of blindingly white lightning shot down the darkened tunnel, followed by a crashing boom that echoed and re-echoed around them. The quintet tried to find cover in the small recesses along the walls but no more shots were forthcoming. What did follow were the reverberating sounds of footsteps as they scampered off but there was a lop-sided quality to the sound, Bannister was still being carried. Determinedly the Doctor rushed off in pursuit, "He must have taken an energy rifle from Fraser's collection."

Julia gasped in horror, "What? Not only does he slaughter Carlshaw and Grandfather, but he robs him as well?"

"Well if someone is willing to murder, surely theft is of lesser consequence?"

The assailant fired again cutting off Henri, and shot a number of random blasts down the tunnel to slow pursuit. One of the blasts hit a pocket of gas close to the Jellico, igniting it. The flaring gas illuminated the whole tunnel in a red-orange glow as the Hybrid's roar of anguish rang up and down the tunnel. The group sped as fast as they could up the tunnel to investigate the damage. The Doctor's voice hissed out, as he swept with his sonic screwdriver, "Careful. According to the readings he's are only a couple of metres – sorry half-a-dozen or so feet ahead."

A further blast of lightning caused a loud boom and a supporting wall to explode in a shower of masonry and brick dust. Henri gave a startled yelp and everyone ducked down into the filthy water. Julia gave an anguished cry of, "Oh no! This is one of my best frocks!"

The chase continued through the underground sewers of London, with shots being hurled back all the time until they spluttered and ceased. The Doctor, by now – like the others in the group – was hot, sweaty, wet and filthy. He called a halt. "He seems to have stopped moving…" He pressed against the wall and urged the others to do the same as he took out the silver block and swept the area with his screwdriver, reading the results from the small screen on the block. "Oxford Street! There is an opening in the wall of the tunnel around this corner. The Iytean must have been clearing away debris of the crevice." He laughed with a sense of relief tinted with disbelief, "Of course! That's why I couldn't find it!"

Henri looked at him curiously, "Find what?"

The Doctor sighed and started speaking excitedly, "I tried earlier to scan for the patrol ship but couldn't find it. You see the patrol ship is probably on standby mode; it's over there sitting on primitive bedrock surrounded by thousands of years of accreted mud and clay. The background radiation of the bedrock is high enough to mask the output of the patrol ship."

There was a much deeper 'crump' noise and a cloud of dust erupted from further up the tunnel. Before the cloud settled, there was the sound of something being dropped followed by footsteps on metal. Reeves-Latimer crept to the corner and looked up the tunnel, scouting for possibilities when she spied that the Hybrid had dropped a large, tubular device close to a massive hole in the wall barely ten feet away. Of the beast; and indeed of a circular patch of the wall she estimated some nine feet in diameter there was no sign. Taking great care, she ducked down and scooped it up, surprised by the relative lightness of it.

She studied the device, large and bulky – around two feet in length, one end was open like a mortar barrel, the other was sealed with a number of dials and switches labelled 'intensity', 'spread', 'duration' and 'power'. A small segment was flashing with three red light bars arranged in a seemingly random orientation. There was what appeared a grip and trigger made for a hand similar in style and size to that of a human. As she turned the device over, a hand clamped down on it and a voice hissed, "Be careful Detective. That is a digging tool." The Doctor crouched by her side, "It annihilates matter and can destroy a single snowflake in a blizzard or rip through the hull of a starship – ironclad. It could tear through your body in an instant." He tore the device from her hands. "Jellico must have been using this to dig the vessel out. Firing this in there," he indicated what looked like a corridor beyond the rent in the metalwork, "could have consequences of a world-ending level." The Doctor paused, "But Jellico must be stopped." He stepped though the hole.

8. Into the Breach

Litefoot helped Henri over the slight step into a corridor on the Iytean vessel. The outer hull of the craft seemed to be only an inch or so thick – fragile enough for armour in an ironclad, but for an æthership, it seemed little more than tissue. Though, a race that had mastered æther-travel could probably devise a metal stronger than iron for a fraction of the size. Yet despite this, the interior so far reminded the Doctor of his time aboard a naval vessel during the Scottish assault on Newcastle; bare steel-grey metal passageways with rounded hatches. Perhaps 'sailing the æther' was much like sailing the seas after all.

Reeves-Latimer and Julia Fraser followed and stood aghast at the anomaly. The Doctor had headed further along the corridor to an open hatch. He read a sign in delicate, flowing script utterly alien to anything human. "This way to the bridge." He pointed down the corridor and without waiting headed that way. The four humans trailed after him taking care that the hard leather soles of their shoes made little sound on the metal floor.

The Doctor stepped through into the control deck of the Iytean vessel. Amongst the touch-sensitive input boards now sat brass and wood contrivances to replicate the damaged systems. It was remarkably cobbled together and it would be a near-miracle if it worked. He crossed to one of the untouched panels and bought it to life with a few deft taps on the glass-like surface.

"Ah, the ship's log." He began to read. "As I thought – around four thousand years ago, this ship developed a major engine malfunction while passing in the vicinity of Earth. Her crew of three landed here to attempt repairs at this very site. " He scrolls down before continuing. "Unfortunately, repairs proved impossible with the resources at hand and the crew used those digging tools," he pointed to the device Reeves-Latimer still carried, "to bury the vessel and took the lifeboat to attempt the journey to their homeworld. They intended to return – after all Earth _is _a Protected Planet – for this ship was – _is_ a prison vessel; five dangerous criminals held in stasis. What happened to the lifeboat is lost to history, but four thousand years ago, the Iytean homeworld was scorched by the Sontarans as the Iyteans were an offshoot of the Rutan race." He breathed out. "No one ever came to reclaim the vessel or its cargo. Centuries past, the vessel remained buried, its power supply intact and thus operational. Civilisation came and a crude settlement sprang up that would be the basis for Roman Londinium and your London. And now one of the criminals has broken free."

He crossed to a panel set against the far bulkhead, linked via several ropes of fabric-covered cabling to a large, wood-cased computator similar to that in Litefoot's office. The Doctor looked to the medical examiner who understood what was wanted. Litefoot limped across to the unit and started to access the system's memory and from there the Iytean ship.

After a few minutes searching the memory banks, they found what they were looking for. "It looks like someone has been trying to access something in the evidence room. Come on." With that, he led the group out of the control room and along a corridor towards the indicated room." Ahead of them, there came a howl of rage from the Hybrid.

Bannister flew out of a hatchway ahead to strike the side of the corridor tunnel followed swiftly by a charging Hybrid. He still carried the Iytean stunner but such was his anger he forgot to use it.

The Time Lord aimed his sonic screwdriver at the Hybrid and pressed the control. The stunner fired, the negative blue ray threw the Hybrid down to the deck. As the weapon fell it emitted a gentle light covering the creature in a golden nimbus. This quickly receded and left behind a white-haired Doctor Jellico, dead. Henri gave the Doctor a reproachful look. "Was it really necessary to kill Doctor Jellico?"

"I had no way to… his aged body simply couldn't…. the Iytean energy was simply too much for him." He looked down with a crushing guilt before adding in a small voice. "I have to get these back to their home planet before they cause any more trouble."

No one seemed to notice Bannister slumped against the sewer wall. Surreptitiously he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around a small phial and gently loosened the cap. Taking care as not to be detected, he moved the phial from his pocket and removed the cap. "You're not taking me in!" He downed the green powdery contents in a single swallow.

"_No_! That much could kill you…"

He could hear screaming, a cry so filled with pain and torment that tore into his very core. It stunned him to realise that the cry was his own. The pain was terrible, his entire body was on fire, each and every cell burning… exploding, and then healing over to begin the process again.

His body was changing, expanding.

His body became wracked with terrible spasms as his muscles grew, and the bones that they were attached to grew thicker… longer. There were horrible popping sounds to be heard as the ligatures stretched and snapped before healing up, with pain… the pain was like a thing unto itself.

He could feel his clothing – and indeed his own skin – grow tight as the configuration of his body changed, becoming larger, more powerful and more monstrous. His gums tore apart as longer and sharper teeth burst through. His fingers became like taloned claws.

The blood pumped in his ears, harder, faster than he had ever known it. He could feel his heart pumping… it faltered and he felt fear. The heart, though subject to the changes ripping through his flesh, was unable to cope and exploded within his chest. He barely had time to register this before his corpse hit the ground.

Henri and Julia watched wide-eyed at the bulky and animalistic corruption on the floor. Julia turned to the Doctor with tears welling in her eyes, "How… how can you keep going?" She collapsed to the floor.

The Doctor shook his head sadly, slowly, "I simply don't know my child. I just know I must." There was a beeping from within his pocket. He pulled out, flipped the handheld electronic device over and started to manipulate some of the minute, touch-sensitive controls on the screwdriver as detailed by the device. A distant bleeping started that rapidly grew into a strained wheezing and groaning sound that culminated in a loud bang of the TARDIS arriving in the enclosed space.

The Doctor shook his head sadly again. "All that is left is to get the Iyteans back to what is left of their home planet…" He sighed, "Too much death…" He looked upwards, "Do you hear me? No more!"

Fearing the little man had lost his mind, Henri and Litefoot approached, "Is there anything…?"

A second groaning and wheezing sound rippled through the tunnel, ebbing and swelling much as that sound which heralded the arrival of the Doctor's blue box. A dull green and black, featureless box materialised around the partly excavated alien vessel and the hybridised Bannister.

"Oh so _now_ you deign to act?" The Doctor nearly screamed at the ceiling. "You couldn't do anything before to save Fraser? What of Carlshaw? How about Jellico or Bannister? Did they really deserve to die so brutally?" Without an answer, the green box faded away with the same sound behind only the darkness a huge cavern and the sound of adjusting rock.

Disgusted with his compatriots' actions and oblivious to the presence of the humans, the Doctor crossed to his TARDIS and entered. There was a further swelling and fading sound and the blue box disappeared.

Reeves-Latimer cleared her throat, "So how do we get out of here?"

In the dark, Litefoot smiled and pulled out a slim black rod and activated a switch, "Simple," the end lit up, "I saw how the Doctor used his version of this as a torch so…"

Henri hugged her friend's arm, "You are clever and so observant." She winked at Reeves-Latimer. "Without you we could be lost." Reeves-Latimer rolled her eyes. She helped Julia up and the four trudged towards the surface.

9. Later

_The Time Vortex_

The Doctor sat in the gleaming white interior of the ship's console room. Sitting in the gloom, he had decided was affecting his mood. He sat in his favourite armchair, scrolling the small display of his CIA data unit as it presented a newspaper cutting.

**The New Chronicle, 3 March 1901**

Tragedy struck today at the Capital and Counties Bank in Oxford Street, London as subsidence caused a large potion of the bank and surrounding street to disappear in to a hole in the ground. Specialists can give no reason why the bottom of the hole should have been a perfect sphere. 10 members of staff and 23 members of the public were killed.

He stood and started humming to himself as he busied himself with the controls on the central console, "Wonder where they will send me next…"

"It is time —."

"I go by 'Doctor' these days," He turned, "As I think I have told you my Lady."

By the doors stood the Lady Director of the Gallifreyian Celestial Intervention Agency, "It is time, _Doctor_." The TARDIS groaned and the time rotor slowed. There was the unmistakeable sequence of rematerialisation as the console room reconfigured itself slightly under outside influences. The CIA unit vanished with the same swell and ebb groaning sound of a time capsule dematerialising albeit at a much smaller scale.

"What do you…?" Then realisation sank in, "No!" He lifted his right hand and looked at it. It was insubstantial, fading and glowing with an inner golden-white light as it streamed away in his perception. He could see the veins pulsing with the light. His own hand melted into a blur, vague and featureless. He looked at the Time Lady with great alarm, "When are you sending me?"

The Time Lady smiled, "The last third of next century – on the Earth you know. Your appearance will change and you will forget."

The words of the Triumvirate came back to him. Oddly it now suddenly struck how like a manifestation of the character of Gulliver the Leader had appeared, "…_noted your particular interest in the planet Earth. The frequency of your visits must have given you special knowledge of that world and its problems… For that reason you will be sent to that planet, in exile. You will be there in the twentieth century and remain there for as long as we deem proper; and for that period, the secret of the TARDIS will be taken from you… Your appearance has changed before, it will change again._"

Then Rowellanuraven echoed the Triumvirate, "The time has come for you to change your appearance Doctor, and begin your exile."

His vessel finished materialisation and the Doctor fell against the doors, he half turned. Though slumped, he seemed much taller and his hair once-again white. His eyes, still blue, looked at the Time Lady, "I am sorry…" The Time Lady smiled with great sadness as her image melted away. The doors cracked open and the newly born Doctor fell through into low bushes of purple, heather-like blooms. He lay insensate in a clearing in a wood as meteorites that glowed with an internal light fell in the local area.

_Winton Road police station, seventy-nine years earlier and a dimensional side-step away_

In Litefoot's laboratory, Henri and Reeves-Latimer sat as Litefoot absent-mindedly and ineffectively tapped away at the computator. "What happened to Miss Fraser?"

Reeves-Latimer shrugged, "She disappeared almost as soon as we got to the surface. We have had no sighting of her since. There are constables keeping watch on the family home…" There was a knocking at the door and Madsen entered and rolled his steam-powered chair into the laboratory.

"I do not know what you did to this," He tapped the rifle he had across his lap, "Meg, but you did a really good job. It will take a complete re-build."

Reeves-Latimer smiled coolly, "It was all done in the line of duty."

Madsen raised his hands defensively, "It was an attempt at humour. So who was this Doctor then?"

Henri looked to Litefoot, "I do not know, but he seemed to know an awful lot."

Madsen tapped the arm of his chair, "Ah a Renaissance Man? Specialisation _is _the curse of our age."

"I beg your pardon."

"Specialisation of profession is, or can be, detrimental. Look to history; the greatest polymath of all, Leonardo – the original Renaissance Man – a man who worked in many areas and could do pretty much anything if he set his mind to it, he could have a field day with all this." He indicated the laboratory, "Yet now he would be deemed a 'Jack-of-all-trades, master of none' by society. Many of the great scientists held religious office or were medical men like you Eddie, to whom science and engineering, the topics to which we have devoted our lives, were… an alternate strand of life, something more than a hobby, but not their sole pursuit. Yet if I were to turn to painting or sculpture, well for one thing I would not be very good." He laughed at his own joke.

Feeling that she should placate the artificer, Reeves-Latimer interrupted, "Your machines and inventions have some aspects of the artistic about them."

"Thank you Meg, but they are not sufficient to exhibit in the British Museum I fear," he smiled, "As I was saying, they would not be very good and still seen in terms of my engineering background."

"But in 50 or 100 years your artistic works could become better known than your engineering."

"Precisely my point; Newton was a scientist and mathematician despite his works and treatises on philosophy of celestial mechanics. Leonardo cannot be so easily – 'defined'. He was an artist _and_ scientist _and _engineer."

"Your ideas intrigue me Mister Madsen." Reeves-Latimer stood and moved over towards the artificer, "Shall we adorn to the canteen and discuss it further over a cup of tea?"

Madsen nodded, "That is a capital idea." Reeves-Latimer grasped the back of Madsen's chair and turned it around easing him into the corridor. As she left, she glanced over her shoulder and winked at Henri.

Henri smiled and spoke softly, "Not exactly subtle." She looked to her hands for a second, before looking to Litefoot, "I have been thinking about our meeting and my words to you yesterday. There are some who hold that the soul is reincarnated until it reaches perfection and enlightenment. At this time the soul is allowed to travel beyond this world into Heaven. What if there _are_ 'soul mates' – people whose souls have linked with another's throughout history? Would it not be fate to reunite these persons in each… incarnation? On this premise, it is entirely possible that our souls knew one another 'before' and thus we were drawn together in this life as we have been before. Thus it is possible we _have_ known each other longer. This could, of course, be complete piffle." Henri felt her face redden before she looked squarely into Litefoot's eyes and smiled softly. "But I feel I have known you far, far longer than the few scant weeks of our acquaintance. Yet…" She trailed off, "You probably think me a 'silly girl'."

Without hesitation Litefoot took Henri's hand in his, "No never," He blushed, "I would never think you silly."

Henri smiled with relief, "Thank you, but there are those who could – would – ridicule such an opinion."

Despite his nervousness, Litefoot squeezed his friend's hand, "I am – I hope – your friend. You are no 'silly girl'; quite the opposite in fact."

Henri nodded gratefully. "Thank you." The two friends shared a smile, "Of course you are my friend and I hope I am yours' as well." Litefoot nodded with more than a sense of embarrassment. Noting his sudden discomfort, Henri decided to change the subject, "Do you really think this world is destined for such brutality as the Doctor alluded to?"

"Well the last four centuries can be summarised by quite succinctly; '_the nations of Europe exploded outwards into the world, claiming territories as their own. One-by-one, they came into conflict with Britain, were beaten down and sent home._' During that time, 'New Amsterdam' has been renamed New York, 'New France' renamed Canada and 'New Holland' has become Australia. Great Britain has fought Spain, France, Denmark, Holland, the Holy Roman Empire, Russia, Germany and Italy emerging battered but victorious from centuries of war. The skirmishes with the colonial rebel forces in the Americas were no different, neither were the clashes with the Scottish and Irish seditionists." Litefoot swallowed, "But now, with virtually every crown head of Europe, Russia and beyond related to Her Majesty through blood or marriage…"

"Or both," Henri added.

Litefoot conceded the point, "Or both, yes. But short of a major family 'spat', I cannot see such devastation visiting itself on Europe." Litefoot shook his head. "Nor, for that matter, can I see the Scottish or Irish problems escalating into the quarter-billion deaths. The Scottish Sedition killed slightly fewer than twelve hundred in totalon both sides. What sort of conflagration could bring about the deaths of ten times the current population of England within half-a-century?"

Henri paled and shuddered at the thought of such near-Armageddon. "I have no idea. But he was mistaken about the Dutch and Boers maybe he was about this – after all he did say 'the Earth he knew'. Maybe there _are _duplicate worlds out there, and as horrifying as it sounds, one of them is destined to 'nearly drown in blood' as he said." She stood and clapped her hands to brighten the mood, "Shall we go an interrupt Megan and William in the canteen?"

Litefoot stifled a nervous laugh, "That sounds a jolly idea." He stood and offered Henri his arm, she took it and the friends headed out of the laboratory-office, each wondering what their next adventure together would bring. Each concerned by the apparent prophecies of the Doctor.


	2. Disclaimer Author Notes

**Disclaimer**

As stated in the summery; this story originally, drafted in 1999, was based on the FASA _Doctor Who Role Playing Game_ module of the same name authored by J. Andrew Keith © 1985. Some of characters (Jack Bannister, Thomas Carruthers, Colonel Malcolm Fraser, Julia Fraser, Doctor Henry Jellicoe and Bert Jenkins) derive from that work. The Doctor as portrayed by Patrick Troughton (and Jon Pertwee in a non-speaking role) and supplementary characters of Boaz and Shura from "_Day of the Daleks_" (1 January to 22 January 1972) is the property of the BBC. Any resemblance to persons else living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental.

**Brief Elucidation**

One certain liberty has been taken with the canon of the BBC TV series _Doctor Who_. The implication was that the Doctor went straight from his Second incarnation (as intended in this work) spiralling into shadow at the ending of "_The War Games_" (19 April to 21 June 1969) to his Third Incarnation seen falling out of the TARDIS in "_Spearhead from Space_" (3 January to 24 January 1970).

However, the Second incarnation and the First incarnation (as seen in this work in a non-speaking role) appeared older than they were when regenerated in "_The Three Doctors_" (30 December 1972 to 20 January 1973). The Second and Third incarnations appeared older and without companions in "_The Five Doctors_" (25 November 1983) along with an odd-looking First incarnation. An even older-looking Second incarnation appeared with an older-looking Jamie in "_The Two Doctors_" (16 February to 2 March 1985) and the only time _they_ travelled without company was between "_Fury From the Deep_" (16 March to 20 April 1968) and "_The Wheel in Space_" (27 April to 1 June 1968).

From this it is possible to surmise that the Second Doctor/Jamie segments of "_The Two Doctors_" may have occurred in the 'seven days' between "_Fury From the Deep_" and "_The_ _Wheel in Space_" since there was no onscreen implication that the latter story followed immediately from the former. While a lot could happen in seven days, just imagine what could happen in the six-month gap between "_The War Games_" and "_Spearhead from Space_" especially for a time traveller.

The concept of a Doctor being taken out of his own timestream (for whatever purposes) was a concept 'borrowed' from the BBC books Eighth Doctor Adventure '_The Eight Doctors_' (first published 1997).

Similarly liberties have also taken with the 'sonic screwdriver' as first seen in "_Fury From the Deep_" as a 'simple' tool for the removal and tightening of threaded fastenings to the multifunctional device of later years up until its destruction by the Terileptil leader in "_The Visitation_" (15 February to 23 February 1982).

Of course the return of Doctor Who (as deemed 'Series One') in 2005 bought back a sonic screwdriver as more of a 'Swiss Army knife' type tool with numerous abilities and functions that could probably be used as a razor, toothbrush and ear-hair remover and Dalek remote control to name but three.

1


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